by Ken Fry
That afternoon, scratching at his sores, a gripping hunger had overwhelmed him. He hadn’t eaten in forty-eight hours. A butcher’s shop looked inviting. Meats and fly-blown carcasses hung from hooks around the premises. Nobody was around, apart from the serving girl. She was no problem and with a swift blow he sent her spinning to the floor. He reached up to lift a cured ham from a hook. Before he could run, two enormous blows struck him on the back of his head. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was an angry looking butcher holding a mallet, glaring at him.
How long he’d been out, he couldn’t tell. At first, he thought he was dead. He struggled on the edge of full consciousness and knew he wasn’t in the butcher’s shop. It didn’t smell of blood and flesh ... he smelled incense. He was on a bed, and through half open eyelids, he could see the flicker of candles. A bright white light bore down from unknown eyes into his ... there was a voice in his head ... Rest, you are home.
The Bastard cried out, raised both arms and fell back again into a deep sleep.
When he next awoke, he could see a serious face staring down on him, but with a welcoming smile.
“My name is Brother James, and you are at our monastery. Who are you?”
The boy shook his head with a puzzled look. “I am called The Bastard. How did I get here and where am I? How long?”
James laughed. “Well, we can’t be calling you that. This monastery is close to Segovia. You were brought here by two of my brother monks, who rescued you from a certain beating and being thrown into jail. You’ve been here four nights. You may stay here as long as you wish, and if you do, we shall give you a new name.”
The Bastard rubbed the back of his painful head and looked at his rescuer with interest. Food and drink had been set out alongside his bed. He couldn’t remember the last time anybody had shown him kindness. Another dazzling but overriding image reverberated in his mind. His eyes widened. Christ spoke to me. He said I was home.
James smiled. “These are my brothers.” He indicated several other monks who had come into the room. Without exception, they all spoke kindly to him and invited him to stay.
For the first time since he was born, The Bastard felt welcomed, and wanted … a deep peace engulfed him … a peace he’d never known. His lips quivered. Why me? His entire mind and body filled with remorse, shame, and guilt at his past misdeeds. He looked up at Xavier.
“I can stay?”
He was renamed Alfonso. That was twenty-five years ago.
Now, as a warrior monk, he knelt in humility and performed his prayers ─ twenty decades of the Holy Rosary. The weeping sores of his skin disease remained as they were from the day he was born. He was born in sin, so after each decade, he beat himself with his knitted cord whip. This time, he hit harder than before, and twice as often.
It was the third night of his guardianship.
His true anguish came from within.
At first, he ignored it — but it grew louder. Alfonso could not stop the loud pounding of his heart or the voice in his head. He knelt and placed his head between his hands. The voice persisted.
“Brother Alfonso. Your father painted me well. He was devoted until the day he came to me. Twenty-five years ago, you became as Lazarus. You found me, as have your Brothers. The faithful are few. Not many find me nor can all gaze freely upon me. Those that do can be healed. Your time is here. Before your watch is over, you will hear my call. Do not be afraid.”
“I promise. I promise with every last drop of my blood.” Alfonso’s voice shook and he sank to his knees, eyes raised to the darkening sky, his voice loud and ecstatic, booming upwards into the gathering night mists.
It was then he saw that his sores had gone. What remained was whole plump skin and all blemishes and scars had vanished. His arms, his fingers, legs and toes, glistened with radiant newness … and his back was free from the marks of lashing.
“God in Heaven be praised!” Alfonso raised both arms skywards and fell to his knees with tears cascading down his face. He repeated it over and over. Above, the night grew darker and thunder rolled through the clouds. He became oblivious to the rain splattering onto the rocks and sandy soil. Two colossal lightning strikes struck the mouth of the cave with a tumultuous splintering of rock and granite. He was forced to look up from his drenched praises. The giant boulder that secured and concealed the entrance had taken three men to roll it into place. The lightning had moved it wide open in seconds.
Alfonso forgot both his joy and discomfort. It was replaced by astonishment. Emanating from the depths of the interior, he could see a soft golden glow that lit up the walls and roof.
“Holy Mother of God! What is that?”
He gripped his sword with intensity, raised it to his shoulder, forgot his fears, and moved inside the entrance.
Robbers. Intruders.
His duty was clear. In accordance with his Holy Vows, they would not be allowed to escape or survive. The light on the walls and passageways increased in brilliancy the closer he got to the central chamber, where the Holy Artefact stood shielded in its gold mantle. For this cause, he would sacrifice his life.
The light intensified as he moved into the central area, causing him to shield his eyes. It was coming from beneath the shrouded painting. There was no one there. His steps began to falter the closer he got.
It was then he saw them.
Silhouetted in the radiance of the gold mantle, two figures approached him. Alfonso went dizzy and dropped his sword. All fear left him, replaced by an overwhelming joy. He knew who they were.
Their arms were outstretched towards him and he could hear their voices inside his head. He knew his time had come. He opened his arms.
“My father, my mother, I am ready. Take me.”
Francisco and Paloma took him in their arms, and he held them tight, feeling the warmth and joy of their embrace. He turned his head to the Holy Artefact, gave thanks and praise, before they vanished together … their three bodies disappearing forever from earthly sight.
The light faded and the gold mantle fell to the ground to reveal an empty frame.
Outside, the ground shook and trees swayed before being uprooted, and the boulder rolled back into place.
CHAPTER 40
Before he left, Throgmorton took a long look at himself in the mirror. He had made a calculated decision to abandon his normal suave attire and switch to a mode he considered more in keeping with his role as an international criminal. Gone were the Saville Row suits, handmade shirts, brogues, and old school ties. He had replaced them with comfortable simplicity, a black soft fedora hat, dark glasses, black fitted leather jacket, polo shirt, minus the logos ... always a tad too vulgar, moleskin shooting trousers and elasticated boots.
He decided that he looked the part and he felt comfortable. Now he was ready to deal with the Stuart woman. She was a prize. With her, he could begin his plans to remove both her and Ladro. With them out of the way, the Condesa and her money shouldn’t be a problem. Raúl Cortez’s contribution had been useful, but that had to come to an end. De Witt’s work had given everything a new dimension. If Ladro found the missing work, it wouldn’t do him any good because he had Stuart … plus an exceptional fake. He held all the aces. It was time to visit his prisoner.
An hour later, the hired car made its way across the hills that led to the narrow track heading up to the monastery ruins.
§
Ulla crouched low in the trench hidden behind a wall of bushes. She realised where she was … the ruins of the Monasterio de Sant Vicente de Valencia. Her heart pounded against her chest as she took on the enormity of what she had just done. She was flooded with a mixture of emotions ... of exhilaration mixed with horror and disgust of her ability to dispose of two lives. A process of rationalisation took over.
They deserved it. Sooner or later the result would have been the same. A pity it wasn’t Throgmorton. If anybody deserved to be dead, it was him.
A flash of lights approaching up th
e narrow track alerted her to a car making its way in her direction. She crouched lower. It passed her by, crunching and disturbing the ancient pebbles and rocks. She knew it could only be going to the ruins she had just escaped from. There was nowhere else a car could go.
Throgmorton. It could be no one else.
The brake lights flashed on and the car came to a stop. She had no idea what she was about to do, but without thinking, she reached behind her jacket and gripped her pistol.
The door opened, and Throgmorton stepped out looking neither to the left or right. He headed straight for the hidden door. The engine remained running and the lights dimmed. It didn’t look as if he was going to stay long. She didn’t hesitate. Crouching low, she began moving towards the car and waited for him to disappear. She watched him duck under the tape and vanish into the entrance. She counted to twenty and before she had reached the final number, she sprinted to the car, flung open the door, jumped in, put it into gear, reversed, and put her foot down hard on the pedal before scrabbling off in a plume of dust and debris.
The headlights flashed their beams through the unlit track as she swerved from side to side at speed, desperate to put distance between herself and Throgmorton. Her next hope was that Brodie would be at the hotel when she got there. Her mobile had been taken by the two guards and smashed. She gripped the wheel harder and pushed the car’s speed until she hit the main road. She relaxed only as she swung left onto the deserted tarmac that would take her back to Toledo.
§
Throgmorton stood at the top of the ladder and listened.
Nothing. Not a sound.
“Hola! Hello!” His shout bounced around the damp walls and received no reply. He tried again, and with the same result.
“Copin, Lopez, are you there?” A pang of alarm shot through him.
He clattered down the remaining steps of the ladder and wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Lopez was on his side and bleeding profusely― behind a small pillar, Copin lay sprawled across the floor and from the astonished wide-eyed expression on his face, was very dead.
Worse.
Ulla Stuart was gone.
He turned and hurtled up the ladder and burst back out of the door. A quick glance confirmed his car was gone.
He held his head in his hands and then raised them to the black sky and shouted out at the stars. “The Stuart woman! I’ll kill her if it’s the last thing I do!”
CHAPTER 41
Nursing a stiff scotch, Brodie simmered with rage. Ulla sat in front of him. The car had been dumped in a backstreet away from the hotel area. She had not been able to stop shaking and she too held a large drink as she explained what had happened.
“I shot two men, Brodie, and probably both are dead. What am I going to do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do and that’s now his problem. How he explains away what he was doing in an underground cellar of a ruined monastery with the bodies of two known criminals, I’d like to hear. It’d be more than he dared involve us in, and that’s if the victims ever get found.”
“What do we do now?”
“We carry on. What we are looking for has to be here somewhere.”
“What about Throgmorton and the Condesa?”
“We haven’t heard the last of him and nor has the Condesa. She’s about to be presented with a fake and that’s for sure.”
Ladro looked at his watch. “It’s two-thirty. I’ll call her first thing and then we make a big push on the research. I don’t think Throgmorton’s going to be keen on contacting us again.” He looked at Ulla and could see she looked drained.
“Fancy some sleep?”
He needn’t have spoken. Her head had dropped to her chest and she had plunged into a deep sleep.
§
Throgmorton wasted no time. The car lights vanished, and he spun around and descended back into the cellar. A quick check on Lopez showed he wouldn’t last much longer. He turned the semi-conscious body over, rummaged through the pockets, and found the two items he was looking for; a gun and the car keys. He ignored Lopez’s last feeble groans, pushed him to one side, and headed back to find their car.
Minutes later, he was on the main highway heading back to Toledo.
Raúl Cortez’s last message had stated that the research had deciphered a number of hidden clues in the paintings, and he thought they were close to discovering what they were looking for. That was helpful. All he needed to do was convince the Condesa of the originality of De Witt’s work. Take her money, and hope she died soon, one way or another. By the look of her, that wouldn’t be long in happening. Next, he had to acquire whatever Ladro came up with and then he could go global.
The car lights cut through the trees throwing up shadowy apparitions that flickered at speed and menace across the tarmac. An owl, startled by the lights, dived across the beams and twisted in the air to avoid a collision. Throgmorton ignored it. His foot pressed harder on the pedal. He had others who could deal with Ladro and Stuart. His priority now lay with De Witt’s interpretation and how to convince the Condesa part with a large sum of cash. He had no doubts he would be highly persuasive.
CHAPTER 42
Nine-thirty and Brodie had been up for two hours. He hadn’t slept. His head had been full of strategies and scenarios. Ulla lay in the position she had started off in and he didn’t want to wake her. It looked as if she had several hours sleep left yet.
He had two tasks. The first was to finish his research at the archives in the Bodega, and the other to contact the Condesa. He checked the phone directory and highlighted her number. He let it ring for thirty seconds. There was no reply and he decided to call her later.
He left Ulla sleeping and placed a note by her bed.
The drive to the Bodega was uneventful although he kept a constant check on his mirror. He knew Throgmorton wouldn’t scare easily and would be pursuing them both until he got what he wanted.
The car crunched across the gravel parking area of the winery which looked deserted. There was nobody about. He had expected to see workers, tractors and machinery on the move, but the place appeared empty. Switching off the engine, Ladro, clutching a bulging briefcase, got out and headed for the office and the library. Before he got there, Evita ran towards him. She looked drawn and worried.
“Hey, what’s wrong, Evita?” Ladro put his arm around her.
“It is my father,” Evita replied. “He has had a heart attack and is now in hospital.”
“What! Evita, I’m so sorry. When? Is he okay?”
“Yesterday, he admitted our financial problems and that he had done things he wished he hadn’t and was asking to be forgiven. It was then he collapsed, and if the medics hadn’t arrived in time, he’d be dead.”
“Was it about Throgmorton?”
“Yes. My father said he put your lives at risk.”
“He did, but he couldn’t have known that. Look, don’t worry, he’ll be okay in the hospital and if we find what we think we are about to, your money troubles could be over.”
“You’re kind, Brodie, and thank you. Would you like your usual material this morning?”
“That’ll be good. The sooner we crack this, the sooner both our worries will be over.”
Over the next hours, Brodie immersed himself in the history of the surrounding area. Catalogued were the lives of the local communities, and battles and conflicts that affected their lives. He began cross-referencing with Francisco’s own diaries and records. The more he read through it, the more recognisable it seemed.
What he read began to both mystify and excite him. The familiarity was baffling. There were passages he knew word by word or what was going to be written next. He ignored the sensation, putting it down to knowledge gained from his years of study.
The ruined monastery had to be where Francisco had lived as a monk. His diaries appeared to have come to a stop, and yet somehow, material by someone unknown had described the monastery’s demise. If they had survived, so
could the painting.
But where?
The final date of the writings was Friday, 12th June 1562. Ladro paused, something rang a bell.
He reached over for the codex and began turning over the pages, scanning for the event he suspected. At one page, he stopped and read it through, going back several times to three lines towards the end of the page.
“I wonder? Evita, are you there?” he shouted through the open door.
“Brodie, what is it?” She appeared from her father’s office.
“Read this.” He poked his finger at the page. “What does it suggest?”
The earth shook ... the houses fell, and bells rang with no one ringing them...
“Evita, that has to be an earthquake, doesn’t it? And all at about the time these records stopped. And that appears later in the year. If so, that may explain what happened to the monastery back then. At some time, it was wrecked during an earthquake. The records we have here somehow survived, but it doesn’t say where the rest went and the monks.”
“Did you know we’re in an area known for earthquakes?”
“No, I didn’t. Tell me.”
Evita pointed to a large wall map and drew an imaginary line through it. “This region is what the locals called the Toledo Triangle. From here in Toledo, across to Valencia, and all the way down to Malaga, particularly the Murcia region, there have always been earthquakes. The last was in Lorca a few years back, and 20,000 buildings were damaged. So, we could be in line for another event. It is likely the monastery was destroyed because back in the late sixteenth century, there was a series of earthquakes accompanied by severe hurricanes.”
