The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  “Majestic. This book alone is worth a fortune.” She turned back to the cover page. There was a date and a title, written and painted in black, gold and red, as if it had been done yesterday.

  MCCXVII

  MONASTERIO de SANTA MARIA de GUADAMUR

  “It’s early thirteenth century, 1217 A.D.” Ulla peered at it intently. Screwing up her eyes, she ran her finger along the ancient text, scanning the calligraphy and mouthing the Latin script to herself as she translated. “Brodie, this is written by an unknown scribe. Listen to this. You’re not going to believe it. It’s about the time of the Fifth Crusade.”

  The people of this area have become poorer both in land and in spirit. They are the Mozarabs. Both our Archbishop, Rodrigo Jimenez de Rada, and our king, Alfonso, are not well disposed to their presence. Their lands are being taken from them. They say Mozarabs have come too much under Muslim influence. We at Santa Maria do not find this as true. They are devout and gifted.

  Our monastery has been under attack in the past from the Muslims, but now we are able to live together. Our Pope Innocent III has requested our King to visit him in Rome to discuss the situation, but the King is reluctant. He wishes to muster an army of Templars and Crusaders to rid Jerusalem and the Holy land of Muslims.

  His Holiness is anxious on two counts: The Mozarab Missal of Silos, which is now over 100 years old, is not to be harmed or desecrated in any way. It is a gift from God himself. There is also the matter of our sacred relic. Inspired by a vision of our Blessed Virgin and her Holy Son, sweet Jesus Christ, the Son and Lamb of God, is the painting by our founder, Abbot Xavier of Galicia, in the year of Our Lord 1145. Our present Abbot, Abbot Montez, allows the work to be shown on holy days only. To this day, even in these evil times, those who are dying from sicknesses and are true believers and are penitent need only to look into the eyes of Christ, who, in his divine mercy, may heal them with the light from his eyes. I myself have seen this happen.

  It is said the painting will vanish 100 years from now, but its secret will be passed on to a worthy one who will recreate its power. We knew our Abbot was a sick and dying brother whom God took pity on, giving him this miraculous and most sacred of gifts. He founded our holy building.

  We, the Benedictine monks of Saint Mary of Lesser Toledo and Guadamur, are the guardians of this most holy relic we call The Eyes of Christ. It is known that the Archbishop wants the painting to be enshrined in Toledo’s Cathedral. Our Abbot has declared that we will resist this. It belongs to the monastery.

  Ulla looked up at him, her eyes wide. “That’s what I call a giant step for two researchers.”

  “Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t believe in miracles. Does this mean our Condesa could be right?” Ladro asked.

  Ulla nodded. “Could well be. But if the painting was destroyed after a hundred years, it is said there would be a successor. Where would that be?”

  “There could be a series of successors. I never found one in Toledo Cathedral. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  “We don’t even know what we are looking for.”

  “The codex was written in several different hands. From what I can make out, Latin was superseded by early Spanish before the volume passed into the secular ownership of the Dukes of Alba. It could mean the monastery was destroyed or abandoned.”

  A puzzled Ulla moved her chair closer to the codex, bending forward as if she was about to command it to give up its secret. “If the Condesa has written all those books about this sort of thing, why hasn’t she found this piece of evidence? It’s been under her nose for years.”

  “History shows the best kept secrets are often kept in full view and nobody realises they are there. People spend too much time creating impossible solutions. But I think I have the real answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She knows nothing of Latin.”

  “That simple?”

  “No, not necessarily. A woman of her intelligence could have had these words translated years ago, but she didn’t. She knew the story behind the painting but was afraid to investigate it further. She’s scared that if it’s not true, she would have to give up her last hope … and will die. She doesn’t want to find that out personally. She’s also part of a noble family who protect their secrets with a wall of iron. An assault on these would bring an unwelcome spotlight on their current lineage and could bring her into disrepute. You’ve seen the way she behaves; imagine what the rest of them could be like. Illness apart, she’s up against an equally strong force, the family. So, she activates a clandestine mission, allowing herself to be removed from the activities. But she makes a colossal mistake; Throgmorton. A blessing in disguise, though, since it led us to meet her.”

  Ulla frowned. “If the original painting, The Eyes of Christ, did exist, it would have been destroyed centuries ago according to the prophecy. What is it we’re looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “As you said earlier, the answer could be staring us in the face. We have every written piece of documentation relevant to this mystery. There must be clues here. If you work on the codex, I’ll start on the family records.”

  “Okay, I agree.”

  She added, “I don’t understand what happened to you at the Condesa’s home. Something between you two was obvious. In the last twenty-four hours, there’s been a subtle shift in your attitude. I think you believe all this stuff, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  §

  A grim smile spread across Throgmorton’s pasty face. “Raúl, you have been most helpful. You say they are there now and going through old records?”

  “Si, Señor, lots of them. My daughter will help them where she can, and she will tell me what’s happening.”

  “You look after her now. She could be most useful. I’ll arrange a money transfer for you when I’m next in the city.” That will be his first and last but should keep him going for a while longer. “Should there be anything dramatic, you will let me know at once.”

  “Si, Señor, at once.”

  The judge gave him his mobile number.

  He beckoned to his two guards to follow him back to his rented villa. This was going better than he had expected. Ladro and Stuart were now off his payroll and would be no match for his men. A surge of excitement reminded him of the thrills criminals must experience when hatching and executing their plans. He was beginning to understand what law and crime were about. They were dependent on each other.

  CHAPTER 23

  Deciphering the manuscript revealed to Ulla that at least six scribes were responsible for the work. The first part spanned a period of over one hundred years. The Eyes of Christ was mentioned whenever a holy day appeared. True believers and penitent sinners would be allowed to gaze on it, but no record of miraculous events had been recorded.

  Attempts by the various Bishops of Toledo to obtain the painting had been recorded in detail. On more than one occasion, it was recorded that armed soldiers representing the Bishop had made forays to the monastery. It was this entry that caused Ulla to gasp and call out to Brodie

  “Listen to this. . .”

  They were about fifty strong, armed with swords, shields and bows. We monks, one score, Knights of the Risen Lazarus, formed a tight circle around our beloved treasure. Wearing our blessed tabards showing the black cross of Christ, we held up our swords to show we were warriors of the Son of God. Our Abbot blessed us and gave to us Extreme Unction. After he had done this, he turned to face the robbers. In a loud voice, he shouted to them, “Dare you kill or maim those whom God has blessed? We are not afraid to die. You are. You will all burn for eternity in the hottest hells. Look upon this.” He stepped back so they could see our treasure. I believe it dazzled them. One by one they bowed their knees, then turned and walked away from battle.

  “KORL … Knights of the Risen Lazarus,” Brodie ran his fingers through his hair and smiled. “We now know two things we didn’t before: who these p
eople were and what those initials stand for.”

  Ulla smirked. “Those initials unravel one mystery but there’re no historical references to them.”

  “For the moment, that doesn’t matter too much. Have a look at these.” He pointed to a row of faded sketches; small preliminary workings of the unsigned artist. “These are what Evita gave me. I’ve arranged them by subject matter, faces, people, buildings and locations. Anything you notice?”

  She bent her head forward, peering hard at each work. She said nothing. When she had finished, she lifted her head. “There’s a story here.”

  “Exactly. Let’s assume these are by Cortez. The style and texture would suggest that they are. The first few show a landscape that doesn’t look a lot different from the approach off the road coming into the Bodega. Look at the line of hills in the background.” He pointed at a dark background of undulating shadow. “That is identical to the line of hills you can see from this window.”

  “Without a doubt.” Ulla traced her finger along the line of hills. “So, this drawing could show the Bodega back in the sixteenth century?”

  “It would seem so. Now, look at this sketch. It shows two people.” He pointed first at a stocky, middle-aged man. He had a small beard and was dressed in a short doublet. He was bent over what looked like a large map, and alongside him, holding his arm and pointing out of a small open window, stood a woman. Her expression looked enquiring. From her clothing, she looked prosperous. The sketch had been done from an open door and gave a view of a small well-furnished room.

  “The draughtsmanship is superb. Pass me the lens, will you?” Ulla bent closer and scoured the drawing. “Well, we know who it is. It’s his mother and father. It says so here, written beneath the table. Look.” She handed it back to Brodie.

  He peered at where she pointed. Written in small letters, the words mamá y papá had been inscribed, almost as if the artist had been shy about it.

  “You’re right—this is turning out to be quite a morning. Now let me show you something else before we tell Evita. These are preliminary drawings that lead up to a finished work. You can see they are by the same artist who did ‘Mum and Dad.’ It seems they were done at a later date, judging from the maturity that shows in the way the composition is handled, and the confident expressions. Look closely and tell me if you see what I think I see.”

  Ulla didn’t know what she was supposed to look for.

  One drawing was of a pious, older looking man, a monk, pictured from the side on his knees. He wore a scapular covered by the suggestion of a tabard. He was praying to a Pietà, an image of the Virgin Mary, her head uplifted, and her arms cradling the crucified Christ. Inset were two more sketches of thin, tapering and gnarled hands.

  If these hands are by Cortez, he had unbelievable skills. She looked across to Brodie who had an air of triumph. She shrugged.

  “Okay,” he said, “now look at this.” He placed it in front of her.

  It was a head and shoulders study of a pretty young woman. She was looking at the artist from over her left shoulder. Her eyes were wide and bright, mounted above high cheekbones. An earring could be seen through locks of hair. A suggestion of sadness shone from her that the passing centuries had failed to eradicate.

  “Superb, but what am I supposed to be looking for?”

  “Look at Mary in the other drawing.”

  Ulla shifted her gaze from one to the other. “Oh wow, they’re identical. They’re one and the same woman.”

  “The head and shoulders version hints at a relationship closer than just being a study for the work. What d’you think, Ulla?”

  “Agreed. It’s a visual sonnet … very intimate. Do we know who she is?”

  “Not yet. I’d make a hefty wager that the answer is somewhere in this material. I’ll call Evita. She needs to know, and that information will find its way to Throgmorton. Then, we can only guess what he’ll do next.”

  §

  Sir Maxwell Throgmorton contemplated his options. It was useful to have contingency plans and he had several. What Cortez had told him to date was interesting, but it didn’t add up to anything useful enough to act upon.

  To be dismissed and threatened like an errant employee by a sick, ageing and crazy countess was something he wouldn’t tolerate. Somehow, she had converted Ladro and Stuart to her cause.

  Both acts were unforgivable.

  His determination strengthened when he thought of the fun he would have making millions at her expense. Once the work was discovered, and even if it was not, she’d be none the wiser.

  Ladro and Stuart would be easy to handle and put out of action ... permanently.

  Stefan de Witt wouldn’t say no to the right proposition. His career as a master forger was about to be resurrected. There was nothing he wasn’t capable of, artistically. A visit was needed.

  The saying is right. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  CHAPTER 24

  Monasterio de San Vicente de Valencia

  Valencia

  1562 A.D.

  Snorting vigorously, Salvador Méndez’s horse clattered beneath the stone arches into the central compound of the monastery before Méndez reined it to a halt. Dismounting, he made the sign of the cross before tethering it to a rickety post.

  As a valued Lay Knight of the Order, he had access to the Abbot and to any Brother he chose. His business was with the Abbot.

  §

  Abbot Covas was seated at a large oak desk. His morning devotions had ended quicker than he had intended as his arthritis was bothering him again. His jaw thrust forward like a craggy rock. Thinning hair straggled downward across his pinched face. He was looking forward to commencing his important work on the illumination of his script for the Little Office of the Virgin Mary. It will hold a special place in the liturgy of the monastery. It would be central in the oath of compassion sworn by the Order and its Knights.

  He might never have undertaken the task had he not dreamt that their past glories would return. The Knights were blessed by God. That had been proven by the power of their sacred painting, The Eyes of Christ. Many true and afflicted believers after gazing upon the figure of Christ with penitent hearts, had been healed miraculously. As prophesied, the painting had been destroyed by fire in the Toledan conflict a century and a half ago. It was said to have mysteriously self-combusted.

  Never before had he seen a miracle or had a dream such as he had the former night. Its power was so real he was convinced it was bona fide. It had told him that their former glory would soon be restored.

  It did not say where or when.

  Before plunging his dip-pen into a horn of mosaic gold ink, he gave a deep sigh and gave thanks to God, and asked that he be alive to witness His wonder.

  A sense of irritation passed through him on hearing a knock against the door.

  He cleared his throat. “Enter,” he croaked.

  The door swung open and Méndez strode in.

  §

  His cell was sparse, consisting of washed brown walls, a straw bed, one bench, a chair, and a rough table. The bareness of the wall was broken only by an agonised crucifix. Sitting alone in front of the cross, Francisco Cortez, now Brother Francis, contemplated the nine months that had passed since his ordination. It had not been easy. It had been harder than he imagined it would be. He loved God and he also loved his fellow brothers, but his love was stained by remorse.

  If my love for God was true, I wouldn’t be regretting my decision to become a monk.

  He missed the banter and camaraderie of the studio, his Greek friend Kadmos, the daily routines, the paint mixing, the smells and the unexpected tasks and projects that Méndez would surprise them with.

  Above all, he longed for Paloma.

  He had not seen or heard of her since the day he had left for the monastery. He had abandoned her.

  In her absence, his love for her had grown. There was hardly a moment when he didn’t picture her in his mind. He imagined her at the studio,
at her shop. He remembered the tantalising swish of her dress, and how he delighted in her furtive smiles and the warmth of her fingertips brushing secretly against his when others were around. The secrecy of their love had heightened their passions. He remembered its heady intoxication, so much so that his devotions had become meaningless, replaced by constant thoughts of her. He could almost feel the wetness of her lingering kisses when taking the wine of communion, and hear the softness of her voice whispering, I love you, Francisco, as he recited the Nicene Creed.

  “I love you too, Paloma.” He would say aloud when alone. “Forgive me, please, I am not worthy of your love.”

  He had denied her and now felt only the deepest of shame. Yet, he knew his love of God had not diminished even if he loved another. But God would punish him for what he had done. Unless asked, he knew he could never leave the Order.

  Worse still…

  He had never confessed his carnal sins. He had tried closing his mind to her pleasures and what they had done together, but it would find ways of entering his consciousness. He couldn’t stop it. So intense, he became afraid of climbing into bed at night or waking in the morning.

  His failed attempts to banish her from his mind made him think she was the work of Satan.

  Would God ever forgive him? Why had God led him here and what was he asking of him? Why had he been tempted so?

  In his turmoil, Francisco attempted to gain order from his situation. God had led him here, of that he didn’t doubt. Paloma had been sent to test him and prevent him from becoming a monk. He had almost succumbed.