The Twelfth Ring (Noah Larsson Book 1)

by Sam Clarke

  ‘Thank you,’ replied my father. ‘Have you chartered a boat?’

  ‘All I could get at such short notice was The Pearl.’

  My father marvelled. ‘Is she still around?’

  ‘She’s moored in a nearby marina, the details are on the table. Unless you need me, I’ll take my leave. Your squire knows how to contact me.’

  Isabelle burst out laughing. ‘Who?’

  The host stiffened and apprehensive glances were exchanged. Miguel ushered the man outside and I explored our temporary home. The reception area occupied most of the ground floor. At the back, a well-equipped kitchenette opened on to a large, square-shaped, internal courtyard that came with its own stone well. The first floor was dominated by a modern wet room, flanked by two small bedrooms. Viggo’s and mine contained two single beds which, despite being separated by a night table, were close enough for him to slap me in the face without needing to get up. Isabelle’s lodgings were even tinier. She had a window, therefore she couldn’t use her claustrophobia as an excuse to get a bigger room.

  ‘Did you hear what that man said?’ she whispered. In an impossible quest for privacy, she attempted to drag me inside her room, but the laws of physics prevented it. Entering or exiting that room two at a time, required the flexibility of a contortionist. Viggo appeared from downstairs and stumbled on his own shoe lace. He fell forward and his shirt rode up, exposing a handgun tucked into the back of his cargo shorts. Great, a squire who couldn’t even tie his owns shoes had been issued a firearm. Isabelle saw it too, but seemed more mesmerised by the elastic of his boxer shorts.

  My father and Miguel’s rooms were in direct contrast with our cramped accommodation. They enjoyed panoramic sea views and a joint roof terrace inhabited by the largest prickly pears I had ever seen. In a corner of the terrace, my father, armed with a pen knife, was inspecting the contents of a large cardboard box. He removed two plastic pipes and pushed them together. They clicked into place. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to play Lego?’ I asked.

  I had never made fun of him before and nervously awaited his reaction. A light smack on my head was followed by his boisterous laugh. ‘These are to build underwater grids,’ he said, handing me one of the pipes. ‘If Knut wasn’t in such a hurry to get to the ring, we could use the geographical, geological and primary source data to narrow down the area where the Nuestra Señora is. Adding in factors such as type of sediment, known earthquakes, currents, man-made interventions and so on, would shrink the area even further. If our pre-disturbance survey highlighted a particular sector, we’d build a grid over it, inspect it square by square with the relevant equipment and identify the coordinates that require further investigation. Then we could proceed with an exploratory excavation.’

  His efficiency stunned me. I had never seen him in fully operational mode. For the first time, I got a glimpse of what my mother must have liked about him: competent, logical, dedicated and knowledgeable. I stared at him with a new-found respect. ‘What is primary source data?’ I asked.

  ‘Direct or first-hand evidence about an event. In our case, Godefroi’s account and the map.’

  ‘Did Godefroi explain how he came by the ring in the first place? Did it belong to him or was he carrying it on behalf of someone else?’

  I had asked him a few times already – so far, my curiosity had triggered three serious cases of selective amnesia and a sighting of the sea serpent in the Gulf of Bothnia which, I discovered, wasn’t a made-up place. On this occasion, he simply ignored my questions. Later that evening we had a lovely dinner in Licata. The owner of the restaurant was very welcoming and offered the adults a few glasses of limoncello (a lemon-based digestive liquor) on the house. Miguel’s phone beeped and he realised that he had missed a call from his ex-wife. ‘Have you heard from your mother lately?’ he asked me, pocketing the phone.

  ‘Not since her engagement.’

  ‘Is Katherine getting married?’ Miguel, his second glass of limoncello in mid-air, stared inquisitively at my father who bit his lip and nodded back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Magnus?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ replied dad curtly, unable to mask his bitterness. He raised his empty glass to the waiter to signal he wanted a refill. ‘It had to happen sooner or later.’

  Miguel discreetly bumped Viggo’s arm, but he shrugged his shoulders. This was news to him too.

  ‘Who’s the groom?’ asked Miguel, as tactfully as he could.

  My father downed another limoncello. ‘Some doctor. French. Good joints apparently.’

  Miguel bumped Viggo again. ‘Why don’t you guys head back? We’ll catch up.’

  My father didn’t protest, too busy asking for another refill.

  #

  God works in mysterious ways. So does jet lag. I had struggled to eat with my eyes open but, by the time we got home, I was wide awake. We decided to continue our evening on the roof terrace and brought up some floor cushions. Ariel declared that he preferred a good book to our lame company and retired to the lounge. We lay underneath the stars that I never got to see in London and did a very poor job of identifying the various constellations. Viggo let out a loud burp. ‘Where are your manners?’ protested Isabelle.

  ‘No idea,’ he replied earnestly. ‘I’m Viking and proud. My ancestors were against all sorts of etiquette and I do not wish to insult their traditions.’ The paladin of bad manners then elbowed me in the rib-cage. ‘Dude, what’s up with Magnus and your mother?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Does he hold a candle for her?’ asked Isabelle.

  ‘Of course not.’ I was under the same impression and my statement didn’t sound particularly convincing. ‘Marriages are complicated.’

  Or at least they were in Amor Prohibido. Isabelle locked eyes with Viggo and smiled as alluringly as she could, unaware that she was sporting a moustache of chocolate ice-cream. ‘Viggo, what are your views on marriage?’ asked the flirty musketeer.

  He scratched his head and stuck out his bottom lip. ‘What’s not to like? Fanfare, food and bridesmaids – unless you’re the groom, it’s paradise on earth.’

  ‘That’s your idea of wedding parties,’ hissed the musketeer. ‘I asked about marriage, a union between a man and woman who swear eternal love to each other. Surely even you must think about it sometimes? I mean… there are no impediments for you to get married, are there? It’s not like you took an oath of cha… chastity or something, right?’

  Poor Isabelle, she was trying to establish whether she had fallen in love with a potential monk. It was dark, but I could feel her blushing from the tips of her painted toes to the roots of her hair. Viggo sat up, a slight frown between his eyes. ‘Did you just ask me if I’ve taken an oath of chastity?’

  A commotion from the ground floor saved her from answering. Heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs and a spirited (in the sense that he had drunk too many spirits) version of my father stormed onto the terrace. He reminded me of a skittle, he kept on losing his balance, but he always recovered. Viggo took a step towards him, but my drunken father picked up one of the plastic pipes that was meant for the grid and elegantly extended his arm. ‘En guarde!’

  Viggo was momentarily lost, but as my father thrust forward to attack him with his rudimentary sword, he picked up another pipe and started parrying the blows. These two had fenced before, the way the blows were inflicted and deflected radiated years of professional training. Isabelle was totally enthralled by Viggo’s neat performance, in the heat of the moment she cheered him on and distracted him. My father jumped at the chance to inflict his coup de grace and victoriously rested the plastic pipe against Viggo’s throat. His aide threw his makeshift sword to the ground and acknowledged defeat. Where on earth had a marine biologist and a drop out from a Swedish university learnt to fence like that?

  CHAPTER 28

  We were sitting on one of Licata’s most famous beaches and Ariel was recounting the role of Sicily in the Punic Wars. Judging by the crowds, another atta
ck was imminent and the Sicilians were out in force. We had hired a beach umbrella, but the sun was at its peak and I was slowly evaporating. Viggo possessed the stamina of a cactus – beads of sweat ran down his back like mini Niagara Falls, but he seemed not to notice. Ariel had slathered himself in sun protection oil and was shining like the Cullinan diamond. My father had been mercifully left behind on account of his big night. I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on. After practically ignoring mum for over a decade, he suddenly bore a grudge because she was getting married. I went for a swim to clear my head. I was floating in the tepid waters of the Mediterranean when a fit girl in a turquoise bikini emerged from the crowded beach and scanned the horizon. I was far enough to blatantly check her out without being discovered. The heat was definitely getting to me: it took me a few minutes of intense ogling to figure out she was Isabelle. We were not supposed to spend time alone, so I was surprised when she swam in my direction. ‘Viggo’s gone to buy some drinks, but he’ll be back soon,’ she said when she was close enough. ‘Last night I did some checking on the internet, a squire looked after a knight’s every need. A mixture between a butler, a slave and a personal secretary.’

  I considered the relationship between my father and his aide. ‘It sounds about right. Is Viggo of noble descent, by any chance?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I did some research too.’ She was partially impressed by my modicum of initiative because she waited for me to speak. ‘At first squires came from a poor background and were hired as temporary help. As the reputation of the order grew, the position became a stepping stone for young men of noble descent keen to become fully fledged knights. I was trying to figure out if Viggo is a temp squire or a knight to be.’

  ‘I know zilch about his background,’ she admitted with an ounce of regret. ‘But I could do some digging.’

  Snooping in general put her in a good mood, snooping on Viggo was her idea of heaven. She clutched my wrist. ‘Were squires required to take vows?’

  ‘No, until they became knights, they led a normal life.’

  ‘So… they didn’t have to follow monastic rules?’

  ‘Nope, which would explain why our squire is currently chatting with two German tourists.’

  ‘How do you know they’re Germans?’ she asked, scouting the beach with the precision of a sniper.

  ‘I heard them talking as I walked past.’

  I failed to mention that they were as old as my mother. Isabelle cast her best evil-eye on the two slender ladies chit-chatting with Viggo at the edge of the water. ‘I bet they don’t even shave their legs.’

  I was too far to tell, but I didn’t share the same impression. One of the tourists scribbled something on Viggo’s arm, presumably her phone number. Isabelle clenched her fists.

  ‘There’s one thing that keeps bugging me,’ I said, thinking aloud.

  She took a break from voodoo practice. ‘What?’

  ‘The monastic life.’

  ‘It won’t be forever, Noah. You’ll get a girlfriend sooner or later.’

  I blushed. ‘I was talking about the Templars. Military commitments aside, they led a very secluded life. They were not permitted relationships with women and had to pray on a regular basis.’ I started counting on my fingers. ‘My father has been married, he’s been dating and, unless we count Brother Felipe’s funeral, I’ve never seen him set foot in a church.’

  ‘Maybe King Philip IV had a point and the knights were truly despicable men. Your father could be the incarnation of what he was trying to wipe out.’

  I ignored her stupid remark, deep down she felt sympathy towards King Philip because she also had a tendency to max out on her credit. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t have the manpower to exterminate Visa. ‘How about Miguel, has he been dating since getting divorced?’

  ‘Nothing serious, but he did have girlfriends.’

  ‘Lineage?’

  ‘He’s of noble descent, but a meaningless title is all that’s left. The Santiago de Castillo are the poorest barons on the planet. No palace, no land, not even a limping pony with a scruffy tail.’

  I interrupted the list of riches she would never see and pointed at the beach. The German cougars had left and the squire was summoning us out of the water. A familiar figure was standing behind him: my father had graced us with his presence.

  #

  The air-conditioned beach bar saved us from the midday heat. The plan was to grab a bite and play some foosball. Before starting the match, my father, who had been fairly quiet, removed his sunglasses and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. ‘I need to apologise for last night,’ he said to no-one in particular. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how it happened.’

  Isabelle snorted and pushed the coin into the foosball table, the balls cascaded into their slot. ‘You were drunk. It usually happens by drinking copious amounts of alcohol.’

  ‘Well, thank you for unravelling that mystery,’ he replied, his words drenched in jaded sarcasm.

  ‘Why did you get so plastered?’ she continued, resting the ball on the serving hole. ‘Are you still in love with your wife?’

  The ball dropped onto the pitch, none of the players moved. ‘We’re divorced,’ said my father mechanically.

  ‘That’s not the answer to my question.’

  ‘Isabelle, that’s enough!’ thundered Miguel. ‘Apologise, now!’

  She pouted instead. My father sank a goal in her side and shoved the foosball rods against the table. I had never seen him so furious. ‘We’re off on our mini-cruise first thing tomorrow,’ he said, looking straight at her. ‘Until then, you’d better stay the hell out of my way.’

  She didn’t have to try hard: he spent the rest of the day sleeping on the sun lounger.

  CHAPTER 29

  The alarm clock shattered the peace of the early morning. Viggo’s hand slapped the night table and eventually found the snooze button. In a superhuman effort, we rose to our feet and stood face to face in the small space between our beds, two opponents sizing each other up. We scrambled for the bathroom at the same time. He beat me. And used all the hot water.

  Soon after breakfast, we drove to Marina del Sole, the harbour where our vessel was moored. My father made a special effort to strike up a conversation with Isabelle and she was smart enough to take it as a sign that hostilities were temporarily over. He had brought his laptop along to work on the letter, but assured me that we would still spend the afternoon together. We reached the marina, which was more upmarket than I had imagined. An army of immaculate yachts looked down on a particular vessel. Our optimistically named The Pearl of Sicily was roughly twelve metres long and painted in three different colours. I doubted that the owner was the artistic type, more likely he was on a tight budget. The Pearl had enjoyed a very chequered career and had been modified to serve a number of purposes. My father defined her as hybrid, but it had nothing to do with her carbon emissions. She was part fishing boat, part salvage boat and part whatever your imagination wanted her to be. When it came to The Pearl words failed me, I prayed her engines wouldn’t. We climbed on board. A man of my father’s age emerged from the pilot house. ‘Magnus, good to see you’re still alive.’

  ‘I do my best,’ replied dad with a grin. ‘Everyone, this is Marco, our captain. Marco, this is Noah, my son—’

  ‘Your son?’ gasped Marco. ‘You kept that quiet!’

  I tried not to look offended, but I don’t think I managed. My father failed to notice (or pretended not to) and proceeded to introduce the rest of the group. The captain’s posture betrayed military training or a very stiff back. ‘I believe you already know Sesame, my second in command,’ he said to my father.

  The man who had let us into the Licata residence stepped out of the pilot house.

  ‘Seriously?’ I blurted. ‘Is your name Sesame?’

  ‘My mother loved One Thousand and One Nights,’ he replied with an air of resignation.

  I really had to get a grip on my conspiracy theori
es. Marco manoeuvred The Pearl out of the marina and sailed towards the open sea. I had just convinced him to let me have a go at the helm when my father called a team meeting down below. ‘There are some things we need to discuss,’ he began, as we sat around an oval table with raised edges. ‘As you know, Knut has tasked us with retrieving the twelfth ring. If we want this mission to be a success, it’s vital that we’re all on the same page.’ He carefully gauged his next words. ‘Knut is a very private person, he doesn’t want his affairs broadcasted to the four winds. If you truly want to be a part of the search operation, you’ll have to take an oath.’

  ‘An oath?’ echoed Isabelle sceptically.

  ‘Like a medieval knight or something?’ I asked, picturing myself in a lavish throne room in front of a pretty queen who looked a lot like Cressida.

  ‘Sort of,’ replied my father.

  Excitement flooded my veins, was I about to take a Templar oath? Twenty minutes later, my excitement had somewhat faded. ‘Is that it?’ I asked.

  My father chuckled at my disappointment. ‘Did you expect me to tap you on the shoulders with the flat side of a sword?’

  Was I that transparent? My mysterious oath had turned out to be a fairly insipid affair.

  I, Noah Joakim Larsson, son of Magnus, solemnly declare of my own free will and accord that I will not share the details of the secret assignment which I am about to undertake with another living soul. I solemnly promise, upon my honour, that I will take all knowledge acquired during the undertaking of this mission to my grave.