by Ken Fry
He let his silent words drift up like wood smoke ascending to the heavens. He said goodbye to Ulla and promised to let her know of any developments. The words Deus Vult! Beauséant! without conscious effort or summons, passed through his mind as he relaxed his grip on the phone.
All that could be done now was to wait for Abbot Louis and the painting.
Garcia appeared. “Brodie, when I first heard of this story from Ulla, I thought it was a tub load of poo. Evidently, it’s far from it. It’s red hot, and some guys out there are prepared to do dreadful things to get hold of the secret. The ladies come first before anything else, we agree on that, don’t we?”
“Absolutely.”
“While you and Ulla were talking, I found these.” He produced Luciana’s shotgun and several boxes of cartridges, the Condesa’s small silver pistol, a large axe, rolls of wire and a vicious-looking hunting knife.
Memories rushed through Brodie, and his face blanched to the colour of virgin blotting paper. He looked long and hard at the items.
“I thought I could make use of these, but I’m not sure I can do all that again.”
“Do what?” Garcia knew nothing of the dark episodes in Brodie’s past, that led to the demise of Throgmorton at the hands of Maria.
“That’s another story. When this is over, perhaps I’ll tell you.”
“Okay, that’s a deal. Let’s check on Luciana, have a drink and wait for our holy courier.”
CHAPTER 23
Bower sat alone, glowering into the nearby views of Pamplona. To one side of him sat his easel and paints, which he refused to participate with. He feared something would take over him again if he tried to paint.
That damned horse, and that girl who seems to look into my soul. Now here’s Shepard, who I don’t trust for one bit. I know his kind. My bet is he’ll filch the painting and put a bullet through me if he thinks he can get away with it. I think I’m going to have to beat him to it. All this crap is causing my psoriasis to play up. Goddamn it!
He proceeded to scratch to the edge of bleeding. That thought prompted him to check his Beretta. It was fully-loaded, and he had several magazines to hand. He decided that once the painting arrived, it would be time for action. What puzzled him was, whilst he wanted the painting, desperately so, his desire to make a fortune out of it was waning. It no longer sounded so important. That desire was gently fading like stars when the sun arises in the morning sky. True, it was a contemporary work and totally different from other medieval examples found in the The Book of Miracles. He wanted to see it, touch it, and own it … but he no longer shared Shepard’s vision.
Bower couldn’t understand what was happening to him. These revelations were totally uncharacteristic. Mixed up with these thoughts was a feeling of regret that the maid took a hit. He truly wished it had not happened, but hey, a shotgun pointing at a man with a gun was asking for trouble.
He didn’t know what to make of his new emotions. But he was certain that Shepard would have to be eliminated from the equation. He had almost served his purpose. He needed to consult George and Man One on the best course of action.
As yet, no video or photograph had arrived. It was time to speed up the process. He made his way into the other room where Martha and the Condesa were seated.
Martha glanced up at him with a look that reminded him of a child being chastised. The Condesa’s gaze was contemptuous, as if she was looking out of her grand window to see what the peasants were up to.
It did not go unnoticed and he felt the full force of it.
Shepard and the others were stationed in various corners around the room.
“Where are we at with Lazarus?” Bower spat his words out to Shepard who looked as if he had been half asleep.
“Still waiting for him to send the video. It may take a few more hours yet. There are distances involved.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.” He added his next remark to establish his authority in the room. “We don’t want to start chopping off fingertips and ears, do we?” He attempted a smirk as he faced the women, but in his secret self, he knew that was never going to happen. He felt a waft of shame pass through him.
What is going on with me?
Martha stared at Maria, calm and unconcerned. “He wouldn’t dare. Believe me.”
“I don’t trust the flashy trashy worm one bit. He’ll do it if he must. If he can’t, he’ll get his goons to do it.” Maria pointed at the two meatballs lounging in the background.
Martha shook her head.
Shepard stood next to Bower to emphasise his agreement, and to show off how much taller he was. “Well, when we get the painting, we could chop off a bit here,” he held up his little finger, “or a bit there.” He tugged on his earlobe. “Then, we can see if there’s any truth in this miraculous artwork. If it’s as powerful as we have been led to believe, you should heal at once, eh?” He laughed out loud.
Martha and Maria were not amused.
Bower’s insides lurched at his words. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
§
Abbot Louis didn’t drive often, and he found the idea of speeding in his ageing, red Seat Estate more than disconcerting. Everything around him, the cars, lorries, and people, moved many times faster than life at the monastery. Additionally, he had to pull over every so often to check his map and ensure he was heading in the right direction. He knew he had to bypass Toledo, then head down to Guadamur and take a turning along a road that descended into a track. He prayed that his slow progress would not endanger lives.
Wrapped up with his implorations, he repeated several Hail Marys but refrained from making the sign of the cross, which entailed taking his hands off the wheel.
The hours passed by and every so often, he would glance at the bundle beside him, as if it was a living, breathing thing that was about to chastise him at any moment. Yet, he recalled his experience and from that, he drew comfort and reassurance. God knew his purpose and would guide him to his destination.
He seemed to do just that.
He found the turning with no trouble, and in no time at all, he closed in on the ancient converted monastery. He had arrived at Guadamur. He pulled up outside the main gates and cut the engine.
Total silence, not even the sound of birds … only the soft wind on his face as he surveyed the hills and undulations that surrounded the ancient structure.
He felt its past, its spirit, as if it whispered in his ear. His life, his aspirations, his love and hope for mankind, opened up and offered themselves to the awaiting hills. Abbot Louis stood still and absorbed it all and let his gaze flow along and follow the contours of the distant hills and tors that surrounded the place. He understood why they had engendered so much mystery and awe.
His brief contemplation was interrupted by the sound of a slight cough that caused him to start. Turning, he was confronted by Brother Baez, aka Brodie, who was standing firm and cradling a shotgun under his arms.
“That’s how it started with me … gazing at those ageless hills. Father Abbot, they hold countless mysteries, and I can see by your expression that you feel that too.” Brodie smiled. “Welcome to Guadamur.”
They embraced.
“You have my painting?”
“I have it. Why the weapon?”
“Luciana’s predicament could also be ours. We must take no chances or endanger lives. I’m not sure I could use this gun, but it could be a deterrent.”
“How is she?”
“She’s doing fine. Come, tear yourself away from those mysterious hills. Ned Garcia, world-renowned investigative journalist, is here with us. You’ll like him. He’s here to expose the guy called Pastor Silas Shepard, who founded the Holy Church of Lazarus.”
“Say that name again,” interrupted the Abbot, grabbing hold of Brodie’s arm.
“Shepard, Pastor Silas Shepard.”
“Sweet Jesus Christ!” Louis blew out his cheeks. “That’s the very same man who came to mass recen
tly and tried to get a look at our painting. He was wearing a full shoulder holster. I put him off.”
“Well, well! We’re beginning to realise what we’re up against now, although I know others are involved. I worry for Martha and Maria. We have no other choice but to make the exchange.”
They talked for a couple of minutes more before heading inside.
As they entered, Brodie saw Luciana and Garcia sitting very close together and chatting in Spanish.
Looking at them, Brodie was suffused with a good feeling. A smile passed briefly across his troubled features. He made the introductions.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Father Abbot, please unwrap the painting.” Brodie got ready with the phone camera.
With the greatest of care and reverence, the Abbot removed all the covering and bubble wrap that protected the painting and positioned it upright against the back wall.
It looked unremarkable.
“Is that what everyone’s fussing about?” Garcia quipped. “I was expecting rays of light, blaring trumpets and the odd angel or two flapping about. It’s weird, to say the least.” He held it up close as if expecting a miracle to occur.
Nothing.
Abbot Louis had already told Brodie of his brief encounter back at the monastery. A knowing look passed between the two.
Using his mobile phone, Brodie took several pictures from various distances and angles and recorded a short video of him standing beside the painting. Once satisfied, he showed them to everybody, checked the recipient’s number, and pressed the send key.
Brodie and the Abbot could not explain what happened next, as a wall of sound, heard by them alone, penetrated and thrashed through their minds and bodies … like a full-blown orchestra run riot. Covering their ears, they fell to their knees with gritted teeth and eyes shut tight. A power surged through them both like a raging fire.
It transcended the ethers and the mysteries of cyberspace, knowing its mission would not be for much longer. It could grasp the entire universe and those beyond as it journeyed home to know where it was to return to … and come to eternal rest. Evil was, as it always had been, forever present. The stage was almost complete, and the eternal battle was to begin once more. A new champion was about to be born.
Knights were lined in deep solemn rows. Flags fluttered, men shouted, and the animals were edgy as they began a slow advance to an unseen foe.
In desert march or battle’s flame
In fortress and in field
Our war cry is thy Holy name
Deus Vult! Beauséant!
The sound and vision subsided. They were shocked but unharmed.
Abbot Louis was speechless and had turned the colour of chalk. Brodie rubbed at his head and wore an angry expression. He began to stand.
“That was how it was seventeen years ago. Will it never leave me alone?”
His sentence was interrupted by a cry from Luciana who was sitting bolt upright. Her eyes were wide in astonishment and her mouth agape. In her outstretched hand, she held a roll of the bloody bandage that had fallen from her bullet wound.
The wound was gone, and her skin was as unblemished as it was before.
CHAPTER 24
Bower had attempted to pick up his brushes but could find no inspiration. He longed to relax and paint, but his mind was full of other things; the Lazarus painting, a white horse, and the rider of which he was becoming increasingly convinced was Martha. He didn’t know why he thought that. But they were connected and in the middle of a mystery he could not comprehend. Bower was, indeed, a troubled man.
His musings were interrupted by a call from Shepard.
“They’ve sent the video and some pictures. I can see the painting clearly.”
Bower moved swiftly across to Shepard’s outstretched arm and grabbed at the phone. What he saw was not what he had expected. Instead of a wondrous Renaissance style presentation, he saw a work of almost drab sadness – the Spencarian hallmark of life’s tragic realities.
He gasped. “My God! It looks awful. Is this some sort of piss take?” He walked over to Maria and brandished the phone in front of her. “Is this really it? If it’s not, then there will be consequences, believe me!”
Maria took the phone, stared at the image, touched it and handed it to Martha – who in turn looked hard at it, touched the screen, raised her eyes, and handed the phone back to Bower. “Yes, it is. Not what you were expecting?”
He swiped the screen, as if there could be another work of more magnificence concealed beneath it.
Nothing.
It began as a low hum, barely perceptible in his ears, causing him to shake his head. He looked at the two women and they had their hands pressed to their ears. Maria had a strange smile on her face and Martha looked confused, her face all scrunched up.
Louder it became, on a brain jarring frequency.
“What is that?” he shouted out, now with his hands pressed tightly to his ears.
“You alright there, boss?” George rushed over but what he saw made no sense. Three people had their heads bent, and their faces indicated they were in the grip of some unknown phenomena.
“Get away from me!” Bower had sunk to his knees on the floor, shaking his head.
A White Horse … bluebells … shouts and screams … Deus Vult! Beauséant!
Martha and the Condesa, both strode towards him with swords in hand and seemed to walk right through him.
He opened his eyes as the sound descended into a quivering silence. He saw them both in front of him, also on the floor. They had all seen and heard the same thing.
Shepard said nothing, but he knew an event of some importance had occurred. It was the evidence he needed, to prove to himself that the painting was authentic. The knowledge gave him a secret thrill. The second weapon he had concealed around his ankle, in addition to his shoulder holster, also reassured him. Nobody was going to know about that until it was too late. There was no way he was going to let Bower be its keeper. He needed to act soon. For a fleeting moment, the tantalising vision of his church holding sway across the globe dared to enter his mind.
“You okay, John?” he lamely asked.
Silence.
He glanced at Man One and George, who only shrugged their shoulders.
“My friends are back,” the Condesa whispered. “I never realised I missed them so much.”
Martha reached out and touched Bower’s arm. His pugnacious expression was absent, replaced by one of perplexity. “You saw and heard, didn’t you? Now, can you believe?” In her secret mind, there stirred a lingering notion that there was an innate goodness in the man.
“I don’t believe a damned thing! Let’s have this crappy-looking daubing delivered fast and see where we go from there.” He threw the phone across to Shepard. “Get that monk here with that painting. You know what to say.”
CHAPTER 25
Luciana’s recovery astonished them all.
Garcia hugged her hard. “It’s impossible! One minute you’re in pain with a jagged flesh wound and then a second later it’s as if nothing has happened. How?”
Luciana looked equally dumbstruck. She was unable to stop rubbing and examining where the wound had been. “God be praised! Christ be praised! Hail Mary, full of grace…” She repeated the words several times, making the sign of the cross each time.
Brodie and the Abbot exchanged glances. They knew how, and both turned to look at the painting. It had a faint but diminishing glow around it.
“Holy Mary,” whispered the Abbot. “I actually witnessed a miracle.” He fell to his knees, bent his head and began a fervent prayer.
Brodie registered no emotion. He had seen its power before and it was, in some ways, a product of himself … but divinely inspired. He was more worried about his daughter and Maria.
Stepping backwards, he gathered the material that had been wrapped around the painting. As he did, the phone rang. Everybody went quiet. They knew who it must be.
Brodie snat
ched the phone. “The painting is here. So, what do you want us to do?”
It was Shepard. “Glad to hear it. Now, we want you to deliver the painting. Alone. Once it’s in our hands, the women will be released. No tricks now, mind you. You know what will happen.”
“Enough with the threats, Shepard. Those women are more important to me than this painting. We’ve done what you asked, and I’ll deliver it to your location. Where are you?”
“Close to the city of Pamplona. Listen carefully.” Shepard gave him clear directions, ensuring there would be no mistake. “You got all that?”
“Got it. I’ll be with you sometime tomorrow. It’s a long drive.”
“It is. Make sure the painting is intact and not switched.”
“I understand.” The phone went dead before he could enquire about Martha and Maria.
Garcia spoke, “Where are they?”
“The city of running bulls, Pamplona. I’ll leave early tomorrow morning. I have a long drive ahead of me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I’m supposed to travel alone.”
“I’m not the physical type, but you could do with a bit of backup.”
“Okay. Luciana doesn’t need us here now. Bring the weapons you found. We might need them.”
Luciana did not look happy. “Ned, please be careful. I would like you back safe.”
He gave her a sideways hug. “I’ll be back. Don’t worry.”
“Will we ever see the painting again?” The Abbot looked pained.
“Who knows?” Brodie said. “It has a mind of its own, I believe.”
§
Bower had packed up his easel and his paints. He was now afraid to use them. He could not control what appeared on his canvas. Having no control was an area he was deeply unfamiliar with, and this one was spooky in the extreme.
