CABAL OF THE WESTFORD KNIGHT
[Illustrated Version]
By
David S. Brody
Copyright 2008 by David S. Brody
All rights reserved
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction based on fact and reality. All the sites and artifacts referenced in the story are genuine. To aid the reader, I have included pictures and images of these sites and artifacts within the text. The historical references in the book likewise are supported by outside sources—see the notes section printed at the end of the story. All characters in the story are fictional except for the Scott Wolter character, who is a fictional version of forensic geologist and researcher of that name.
Map of Sites Referenced in Book
CABAL OF THE WESTFORD KNIGHT
“Many people discovered America before Columbus, dear boy, but most of them had the good sense to keep quiet about it.”
--Oscar Wilde
PROLOGUE
[May, 1399]
Henry Sinclair brushed the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic and swatted at a swarm of black flies buzzing around his beard. “It is a beautiful land, for sure. But the insects are enough to make a man mad.” His wealth, his nobility, his titles—nature cared not a damn for any of them. Not here in this new world and not at home in Scotland. The pests were just as happy to alight on the neck of a prince as on a stable boy. It was a good lesson.
His companion grunted a response. “Curse the fool who dragged us across the ocean, I say. We should be home hunting boar. Not dragging our old bones up this hill.” He spat. “If God had meant for us to walk, he would not have given us horses, I wager.”
Sinclair laughed. James Gunn would never question him in front of the men but with the others out of earshot behind them on the trail, his old friend could call him a fool without fear of retribution. “What’s wrong, Gunn, getting too old for a bit of adventure? Should I send you home to sit by the fire? You can gossip with the women.”
Gunn straightened in response. His usually pale face was pink from exertion and his thick chest heaved beneath his chain mail armor. Grinning, he rested his meaty hand on the pommel of his battle sword. “Not too old to teach a whelp like you a lesson.”
Sinclair towered over his lieutenant by almost a full head but Gunn was as thick as an oak tree and nearly as hard as one. For almost 50 years, since they were old enough to walk, they had wrestled and jousted—sometimes for fun or in anger, sometimes on the battlefield to death.
Laughing, he raised a hand. “Easy, old friend. Save your strength for when the natives come attacking.”
Following a route his mother’s Viking ancestors had mapped across the North Atlantic, his party—220 sailors and craftsmen spread over 12 boats—made land in a place he christened Nova Scotia, after the homeland of his father’s people. Native legend here told of a tall, yellow-haired god appearing from the east on a one-winged canoe. Fortunately for Sinclair, he arrived with his sail billowing. The natives, who called themselves Mi’kmaqs, were not convinced he was that god. But neither were they certain otherwise. They allowed him and his men to explore for the summer and encamp over winter. When spring arrived most of his party returned to Scotland. But he and 23 of his men, including Gunn, remained to continue their exploration. And hopefully complete their mission.
Gunn grunted and used his sword to hack his way along the trail, his eyes peering into the woods for hostile natives. Sinclair couldn’t resist. “Gunn, ahead there! Is that a native? With bow and arrow?” Crouching, Gunn squinted for a few seconds before Sinclair guffawed and slapped him on the back. “A mere jest, my friend. Having a bit of fun at your expense.”
Gunn shook his sword an inch from his nose. “Your ancestors rutted with donkeys. Just look at their line.”
Pushing the tip away, Sinclair leaned back and laughed. He and Gunn were second cousins. “Yes, I’m looking at it now. An ugly lot, for sure.”
They waited for the rest of the men to join them and resumed climbing, single file behind Gunn. He set a brisk pace which Sinclair easily matched. It was good to be on the move again after a winter of inactivity. They had left Nova Scotia a week ago and sailed southwest, their galley pushed by a gale from the northeast. On the fifth day they spotted land and took shelter at the mouth of a river. When the storm abated they spotted smoke rising from a distant hill. Their Mi’kmaq guide, Kitpu, believed the hill marked the land of the Penacook, a tribe friendly with the Mi’kmaqs that occupied the land just to the northwest of the coastal Massachuset tribe.
The hill was the highest in the region and as good a place as any to explore; they rowed inland, following the river and a tributary to the base of the rise. He took Gunn and five men and Kitpu—a lean, leather-skinned man with an uncanny ability to move silently through the woods—to climb the hill and determine whether the land might make a suitable settlement site. He left the other men to guard the galley. And its priceless cargo.
They neared the top of the hill. Kitpu had explained this land was called ‘Nashoba,’ meaning ‘Hill that Shakes.’ Sinclair had not shared this information with the men—they were already skittish at being so far inland in unknown territory. They didn’t need to also worry about shaking hills.
“Why come we so far inland, my Lord?” Gunn asked. With the men within earshot, he now addressed Sinclair in a manner befitting his status as Prince of Orkney and Earl of Roslyn. Gunn asked the question on behalf of the men, who did not dare question their leader directly.
Sinclair spoke so all could hear. “If we aim to make a settlement, we need to be able to defend ourselves, both from the natives and, perhaps someday, from those at home who might do us harm. It is an unexplored world, this land. But it is only a matter of time before others discover it as we have. God willing, by then, we will have laid a solid claim to it by building villages and fortifications.”
He allowed his words to sink in. Others would lust after the natural riches of this new world—timber to build boats, fur and fish to trade, lands to clear and farm. And the Pope would surely send men in search of the treasures he carried. “To properly defend ourselves, our settlement best be inland and it best be high on a hill.”
Gunn kicked at the dirt. “Then this might not be a bad spot. Plenty of fresh water and game, a river to take us to the ocean and power a mill and already the flowers are blooming.” The rivers and lakes were still frozen in Nova Scotia. “Hopefully the natives are friend--”
A muffled cough escaped Gunn’s mouth, interrupting his words. Sinclair chuckled. “What’s wrong, Gunn, did you swallow an insect?” But even as he spoke, his instincts told him something was wrong.
Gunn turned wide-eyed toward Sinclair, reached up slowly and closed his thick hand on the shaft of an arrow protruding from the side of his neck. “Curse it,” he sputtered, dropping to a knee.
“Get down, men!” Sinclair bellowed as another arrow hissed by his ear, thudding into a tree. He wrapped an arm around his friend’s side and dragged him quickly behind a thick oak on the side of the trail. “James, do not pull out the arrow. Easy, now.” He gently moved Gunn’s hand away. Blood spurted from the wound. Only the arrowhead itself kept the blood from escaping in a torrent. A pit formed in his gut and spread as an anvil on his chest. He had seen many similar wounds. All had been fatal.
He took a deep breath. Resting a hand on Gunn’s shoulder, he called to Kitpu. “Tell them we come in peace. Tell them y
our chief, their ally, guaranteed us safe passage.”
The guide had already begun yelling into the woods. The low murmur of the natives conversing with each other, debating their response, cascaded down the hill.
He took another deep breath and fought to control his emotions. Gunn would die, it was just a question of how quickly. Only God could help him now; he said a quick prayer to the Virgin Mother. “Stay down, men,” he whispered. “We will wait to hear what the natives offer by way of explanation.”
“I pray you release us to pursue the savages, my Lord,” one of his men implored.
“Easy now. Remember, we are in their lands.” And vastly outnumbered.
A few seconds passed, then a resonant voice from deep in the woods called out a lengthy response. Kitpu translated, his English surprisingly good.
“He say any friend of Mi’kmaq chief is welcome on this land. He say he regret arrow in your man’s neck. And he say if your man dead, you may bury him on this hill and they will honor his spirit.”
He exhaled. At least Gunn would be today’s only casualty.
Coughing, Gunn spit out a mouthful of blood and shook his head. “I can taste the blood, Henry. It pours down my throat.” He forced a bloody smile. “If only it were ale.” He reached for Sinclair’s hand. “Take care of the little ones, won’t you?”
“Of course, old friend.” Leaning closer, he smiled. “This is a sign from God, James. I am sure of it. This is the spot God has chosen for us. We will bury you here, on this hill that shakes, next to this mighty oak, and you will be our sentry in this new land. You will guard it for us, for the true soldiers of God, even as the world around you shakes with turmoil and evil.” He smiled again, again rested a hand on Gunn’s shoulder. His eyes moistened. “And a better sentry Christ himself could not have chosen.” He kissed his friend on the cheek.
“You can depend on me, Henry,” he whispered. “In this world and in the next.” His eyes fluttering, he squeezed Sinclair’s hand. “God be with you, Henry.”
Sinclair bowed his head and crossed himself. “We will never forget you, James Gunn.”
* * *
Sinclair smiled sadly at the irony: Normally he would have asked Gunn to find an appropriate burial site for a fallen knight.
Studying the rough map Kitpu had drawn on a scrap of sailcloth, he turned away from the men and tried to blink his eyes dry. He would mourn Gunn later, once they were back in camp and safe.
Taking a deep breath, he refocused on the map. They were about three-quarters of the way up the hill—he had hoped to reach the top and leave a marker in stone at its peak. But Gunn’s death changed that. He checked the sun, noting its position in the southwestern sky. Perhaps four hours of daylight left. They were a two-hour march back to camp; he would not ask his men to spend the night in these woods.
Just ahead, to the left of the trail, lay an outcropping of rock blown clean of leaves and dirt and pine needles by the summer wind. He examined it and returned to the men gathered around Gunn’s body, now wrapped in a brown blanket. “We will bury Sir James just ahead, up the trail a bit.” He motioned to four of the larger men. “Carry him, then.”
He led the way, already feeling a bit naked without James alongside. Who would he confide in? Who could he trust to do the right thing? Most of all, who would he laugh with after a long day in the field? He sighed and rubbed his tunic roughly over his eyes. In many ways it was a miracle either of them was still alive after decades on the battlefields. They reached the site and he motioned to Murdoch, the armorist. “You have your tools, do you not?”
Murdoch, a tall, lean, quiet man with a red beard and sad blue eyes, nodded. “I do but I brought but a single punch. And my mallet.”
“That will have to do.”
As the men took turns digging a grave, Sinclair huddled with Murdoch over the rock ledge. Unfortunately his two expert stonemasons, along with the other artisans in his expedition, were back at camp guarding the ship—he had taken fighting men with him to explore the hillside. Normally Murdoch repaired their fighting armor and other weaponry but he also had experience working with stone. He had been studying the outcrop and pointed out its natural grains and striations to his lord. “I will carve his sword here, using the features of the rock.”
Sinclair checked his compass and pointed. “The sword must point north. It will be a signpost for those that follow us to this land.”
The armorist nodded. “It shall. The lines in the rock run north and south.”
“Good.”
The armorist set to work. Holding an iron-tipped punch at a steep angle to the bedrock, he raised a heavy mallet and pounded the punch, his aim strong and true. A chip flew from the ledge, leaving a pea-size indentation in the stone. He examined the punch and looked up to Sinclair. “The rock is hard. Hard as any in Scotland.”
“Will you be able to finish the effigy?”
Murdoch studied the punch a second time. “I believe I shall. But as the punch dulls, the marks will become faint.”
“The sword is the most important thing. Complete that first. Then turn to the effigy and shield.” No knight should be buried without a sword marking his grave. Especially a warrior like Gunn. Were they back in Scotland, he would have commissioned a full carving, life-size, of his comrade. But here in the wilderness this would have to do. Gunn would understand. He knew what was at stake.
“Murdoch, I want to be certain you understand.”
The artisan looked up, his blue eyes on Sinclair’s.
Sinclair lowered his voice. “This is a memorial to Sir James but it is also much, much more. His effigy and his shield are of small matter. But it is crucial that the sword markings be clear. It is crucial that no one doubt that this is the sword of a Templar knight.”
CHAPTER 1
[September, Present Day]
Legend is more historical than fact, because fact tells us about one man but legend tells us about a million men.
Cameron Thorne read the words on a promotional flier taped to the library’s book return box, reflecting on them as he jogged up the granite stairs of the yellow brick building. Not bad. The historical record was often no more than the product of a single scribe’s take on events, shaped by his or her experiences and values. And often slanted by a particular agenda. But the memories of an entire culture created legend.
He darted ahead of a mother and young daughter to hold the library’s mahogany door. A pair of blue eyes peered up at him from underneath a pink hooded Red Sox sweatshirt. “Are you coming to hear the story about Prince Henry too?” the girl asked.
He smiled. “Um, no. I’m just here to return some books.”
“You should come listen. People think Christopher Columbus discovered Westford. But it was really Prince Henry.”
“Discovered America,” the girl’s mother corrected. “Westford is just one town in our big country. He discovered America—or didn’t.”
Cam cocked his head. “So did he or didn’t he?”
The mother shrugged, smiling one of those smiles meant to be friendly but not flirtatious; as a single guy in a town full of soccer moms, he knew the difference. “Apparently not. I’ll know more in an hour.” She pointed to another copy of the same ‘legend’ flier, this one hanging in the foyer—that afternoon a local storyteller was presenting ‘Prince Henry and the Westford Knight,’ the tale of a Scottish expedition exploring the hills of Westford, Massachusetts in 1398. As the girl skipped ahead, the mother turned and smiled again. “I could go either way on Columbus. But they’re going to have a fight on their hands if they try to debunk Santa Claus.”
“Enjoy,” he laughed.
In addition to returning books, he needed to research some old land records for a client who wanted to put some property into a conservation trust. Not as earth-shattering as a legend that debunked Columbus’ accomplishments, but Cam enjoyed traveling back through the centuries, tracking the history of New England’s settlers through yellowed maps and feather
-pen-written deeds. Which is why he became a real estate lawyer in the first place.
He strolled into the library’s reference section, breathing in the air of a century’s worth of leather bindings and worn cloth and dust and furniture polish. A librarian helped him find some old maps and he spread them on one of the oak tables in the center of the high-ceilinged public room. As he studied them, activity at an adjacent table drew his attention.
An elderly couple was sitting opposite a burly, orange-haired man with large hands and nicotine-stained fingers. The man shoved a document across the table at the couple, the words ‘Quitclaim Deed’ in large type across the top. An odd place for a real estate closing but not unheard of. But something about the elderly couple’s body language didn’t seem right. Most real estate closings were boring affairs, a stack of papers pushed back and forth across the table. Occasionally the parties argued over a stain on the carpet or the lawyers tried to justify their fee by haggling over the language of some document that would never see the outside of a file cabinet again. But in his 11 years of practice, he had never seen anyone recoil in fear.
“Just sign at the bottom.” The Scottish accent surprised him but not as much as the menacing tone.
“Emily and I have no interest in selling.” With his bug eyes and oversized blue cardigan, the man reminded him of Don Knotts in the old Andy Griffith shows. His wife, a thick woman with a round, sun-burnt face wearing a floral house dress, nodded in agreement.
“We have an accord, Mr. Gendron,” the Scotsman snarled, lifting his bulk from his seat. “You’d be wise to honor it.” A few other patrons glanced over at the outburst.
Mrs. Gendron raised her chin but kept her voice low. “We never agreed to sell, Mr. McLovick.”
McLovick slapped his thigh, the sleeve of his white dress shirt protruding from beneath a frayed blue blazer. “Of course you did. Why else would we be sitting here today?”
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 1
