Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  “Sorry for my ignorance but where did the Phoenicians come from exactly?”

  “Near present-day Lebanon, approximately a thousand years before Christ.”

  “Is the site related to the Westford Knight?”

  “Only indirectly. After World War II a number of amateur archeologists in New England began to study these sites, chaps like Jim Whittall and Malcolm Pearson. They were heavily involved with NEARA and they uncovered many of the important New England sites. Malcolm Pearson owned America’s Stonehenge at one time and he took some of the oldest photographs we have of the Knight. That’s why a plaster image of the Knight is on display at America’s Stonehenge.”

  She directed him off the highway, where they followed the signs to North Salem and America’s Stonehenge. After buying tickets in a wooden building that also housed a gift shop and snack bar, she escorted him along an inclined dirt pathway through the woods to a complex of stone enclosures and formations. They squeezed between neatly-placed stone walls into the heart of the complex. “This is the Sacrificial Stone.”

  [ http://www.neara.org/bochnak/MH_03.jpg ]

  THE SACRIFICIAL STONE, AMERICA’S STONEHENGE, NORTH SALEM, NEW HAMPSHIRE, USA

  He crouched and studied the flat, trapezoidal stone. About the size of a kitchen table, it sat two feet off the ground on stone supports. “Wow. They think this was used for sacrifices?”

  “Yes, perhaps human ones.” She pointed to a carved channel in the stone running around the perimeter of the trapezoid. “This is for the blood to flow out.”

  “Very considerate. Wouldn’t want to have a messy sacrifice.”

  She smiled. “Do you see that stone wall?” The ‘head’ of the Sacrificial Stone abutted against a long, two-foot high wall. “It’s actually the exterior wall of an underground chamber called the Oracle Chamber.” She gestured toward a grassy mound behind the wall. “A fellow—a priest, probably—would hide in the chamber and speak into a stone-lined tube that runs underneath the Sacrificial Stone, called the Speaking Tube. The voice would then amplify out the tube, under the slab.”

  “So it sounded like the sacrificed body was talking?”

  She nodded. “Or the gods speaking through it. Neat trick, eh?”

  They walked quickly through the site, Amanda pointing things out as they went. “Using the main complex as ground zero, that boulder lines up due north, it’s called the True North stone … And that one lines up directly with the sunrise on the summer solstice … That boulder lines up with the sun on the winter solstice … This whole site is a massive astronomical calendar.”

  He shook his head. “What a cool place. I wish we had all day to explore. I can’t believe I grew up 20 minutes away and didn’t know about it.”

  “Yes, I’m surprised it’s not more popular. Whoever built it—Europeans or Phoenicians or natives—it’s a brilliant achievement.”

  “Don’t you think Prince Henry would have come here?” he asked as they walked back to the car. “I mean, he had native guides, right? They must have known about this place. It’s only about 20 miles from Westford.”

  “I’d never considered that before. But it makes sense. He was exploring and this was probably a sacred site to the Native Americans. They would have brought him here.” She smiled. “Perhaps there’s more of a connection between the Knight and America’s Stonehenge than I reckoned.”

  CHAPTER 7

  [Tuesday Afternoon]

  An hour after leaving the America’s Stonehenge site, Amanda directed Cam to a quiet country road running parallel to the Merrimack River in Tyngsboro. The river, which once powered scores of mills in northern Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire, flowed south from the New Hampshire lakes, then turned east and north, fishhook-like, before emptying into the ocean along the northern Massachusetts coast. Tyngsboro sat at the southern tip of the river, at the bend of the hook.

  “If Prince Henry did come to Westford, he almost certainly traveled along the Merrimack River,” she said.

  “From the coast?”

  “I believe so, from Newburyport. He came to Westford, then followed the Merrimack north to other rivers before reaching Quebec. Others reckon he came the other way, traveling down from Lake Memphremagog in Quebec and following the rivers in northern Vermont and New Hampshire to the Merrimack. Either way, there are a number of Templar artifacts in Quebec around Lake Memphremagog and along the Saint Lawrence River. An old map shows how the river system used to be different, prior to an earthquake in the late 1600s. Prince Henry could have made the trip without having to portage his boats a great deal.”

  She leaned across him, peered out the driver’s side window. He moved his head just enough to keep an eye on the road but otherwise did not edge away. “Here we are,” she said.

  They got out of the car. He scanned the street—no black BMWs, no careening Cadillacs. At least not yet.

  She pointed across the road. “I want to show you a boulder off in those woods. And please bring your New Hampshire map.”

  She guided him to a Volkswagen-size boulder, split approximately in half. A shallow trench ringed the boulder like a moat. “Some fifteen years ago an archeologist excavated around the boulder. But he failed to backfill it when he completed his dig and the boulder’s own weight caused it to split.”

  “Another so-called expert?”

  She nodded. “He didn’t find anything in the ground so he simply left the trench. Archeologists have a saying: ‘The ground doesn’t lie.’ But sometimes they are so intent on their digs that they ignore items in plain sight. Such as the carving on this rock.”

  She began to brush away the leaves and pine needles, revealing a weathered, half-inch-deep groove carved into the stone’s surface.

  [From Bend in the River, by John Pendergast (Merrimack River Press, 1992) ]

  THE MAP STONE (CLEANED), TYNGSBORO, MASSACHUSETTS, USA

  “Open your map, would you? Let’s have a look at the Merrimack River.” He did so. “Here’s its track,” she said, “winding south through New Hampshire, then it hooks to the east and north before exiting to the ocean.” She handed the map back to him and traced the path of the boulder carving with a stick. “See how they match up?”

  [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Merrimackrivermap.png ]

  A MAP OF THE MERRIMACK RIVER AND ADJACENT WATER BODIES, NEW HAMPSHIRE AND MASSACHUSETTS, USA

  “Wow. That’s pretty accurate.”

  “The only detail that’s a bit off is that the carving makes it look like the river hooks further north than it really does. But I reckon that’s because the boulder is round and the artist was trying to carve a two-dimensional map, so some of the curves appear exaggerated.” She smiled. “Wait until you see this.”

  Climbing atop the rock, she moved to the part of the boulder furthest from the street and brushed away more debris to expose a lobster-shaped indentation in the stone. At the top, on the northern side, three finger-like grooves—the lobster head and its two claws—protruded from the main part of the hollowed depression.

  He joined her atop the boulder. “Hey, that’s Lake Winnipesaukee. Those three fingers at the top are the bays. I used to go to summer camp up there.”

  She pointed to another indentation to the west of Winnipesaukee. “Recognize that?” she asked.

  “Newfound Lake, maybe Lake Sunapee?”

  “I think Newfound. Look,” she said, brushing away a few pine needles, “here’s the Pemigewasset River, flowing down to join the Winnipesaukee River to form the Merrimack.”

  The carving was extraordinarily accurate, especially if it was as old as it looked. Another remarkable artifact. And potentially another piece to the puzzle. He snapped some pictures with his digital camera. “So how does it fit in with Prince Henry?”

  “Well, as I said, he almost certainly would have traveled on the Merrimack.” She pointed at the bottom of the hook in the river. “This is Tyngsboro, the closest spot to Westford on the Merrimack. I reckon they carved th
e map in this boulder so they could find their way.” She jumped off the boulder, walked around to the side. “Have a look at this.”

  He followed her and examined a television-size stone on the ground a few feet from the boulder.

  “This chunk fell away when the boulder split.” She pointed to a notch in the main rock. “See the groove here. It’s part of the map.”

  Rubbing at the groove, his finger slid into a hole where the groove ended. He dug the dirt away. “Any idea what this is?”

  They both stared at a triangular shaped hole, rounded at its corners, about the size of a half-dollar. “No. I never noticed that before.”

  He took out his pocket knife, dropped to his knees and dug out more of the dirt. “It’s about three inches deep.”

  “Might it be just a quarry hole?” She joined him on the ground as he snapped a few pictures.

  “I don’t think so. It’s not the right shape for a modern drill bit and it’s rough on the inside. A modern drill bit would leave a smooth surface. But it’s definitely manmade. Somebody put it here for a reason.”

  They studied the hole for a few seconds, considering its import, Cam acutely aware of Amanda’s gentle breathing only a few inches from his cheek. He could happily have stayed there all afternoon.

  But the world had other ideas.

  A beige Crown Victoria cruised slowly up the road toward them, visible through the brush separating them from the street. The car braked then continued past. The tinted front windows were illegal in Massachusetts without a special permit. He tapped Amanda on the arm, gesturing toward the car with his chin. Another car, this one a dark blue Lincoln Town Car, approached from the other direction.

  “That’s it. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Into the woods?” she asked, scrambling to her feet.

  “Yes.” They edged away. Something in the back of his mind was bouncing around, forcing itself to the surface of his consciousness like an air bubble on a deep water dive. Something about the Boston University Corporate Center they passed just before arriving at the Map Stone site.

  The bubble burst to the surface.

  “Follow me.” He took her hand and they ran deeper into the woods, up an incline, toward the Boston University site. It was now used for corporate training, he explained, but the land originally housed the Tyng Mansion, built in the late 1600s. According to local legend the Mansion and four neighboring houses were interconnected by underground tunnels. The tunnels, which ran down to the Merrimack River, were used by the early settlers to escape Indian raids. Later they were used as part of the Underground Railway to hide escaping slaves. While mountain biking through the woods a few years earlier a fellow rider had shown him the tunnels and related the legend.

  He peered through the trees, elbowing aside branches as he ran. “I think it’s back this way, set in a mound.”

  They pushed deeper into the woods. Amanda grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to a stop. “Listen, I hear something.”

  They arched their heads, trying to listen between panting breaths. “There’s someone up ahead.”

  She scrunched her face. “Are you certain? I hear them from behind.”

  “Great.” He grimaced. “Guess I better find that tunnel.”

  He visualized the trail map, oriented himself to the Map Stone, replayed the ride in his mind. Down a long slope, across the fall line, past a pond, then a sharp turn….

  “This way. The tunnel opening should be right up here.”

  They pushed ahead, Cam sprinting to a raised mound covered by leaves and dirt and pine needles. He dropped to his knees and used a large branch to prod along the bottom of the raised earth. He hit a hard object and dug some dirt away with his hands, revealing a fieldstone set into the side of the mound. “Quick, come help me.”

  They scraped more dirt away, exposing a two-foot-square wall of fieldstones.

  “Are they mortared?” she asked.

  “No,” he grunted, muscling the top one off and rolling it aside. A waft of dank, sulfurous air enveloped them, the flatulence of Mother Earth. “Guess it hasn’t been open in a long time.”

  They pushed a few more stones aside, Amanda surprising him with her strength. He wondered where the tunnel would lead, or even if it was passable.

  “We should leave some stones right by to close the hole from the inside,” she said.

  Nodding, he reached out to retrieve the smallest of the stones before freezing in fear.

  “You’re a difficult man to find, Mr. Thorne.”

  Crouching, he spun on his heel and looked up to see Monsignor Marcotte staring down at him, flanked by four twenty-something guys in jeans and rugby shirts. Marcotte wore a long black leather jacket instead of his velvet robe and collar. He looked more like a wise guy than a priest.

  Cam shut his eyes. The Monsignor. It all made sense. The cleric was the common thread—he had known about the Gendrons’ problem with McLovick, he had conveniently appeared on the scene just after the Bobcat blew up, he had recommended that Cam contact Amanda, he had been in contact with Lieutenant Poulos. Now, somehow, he had tracked them here.

  He played for time, half his mind engaging the Monsignor while the other half searched for an escape plan. “Apparently not difficult enough,” he responded, edging closer to Amanda.

  The Monsignor smiled at Cam and Amanda, motioned to his posse. “Give them room to stand up.” He turned to Amanda. His eyes radiated the same serenity and warmth Cam had noticed during their first meeting. “I am sorry we are meeting under such … strained circumstances.” He held his hands together in front of his crotch, like a mourner at a funeral, and took a deep breath. “I am sure you both are wondering why unknown men are attempting to abduct, or even kill, you. Perhaps I can shed some light on this.”

  Cam eyed the tunnel opening. They had successfully removed most of the stones. They could dive for it, try to outrun this odious priest and his henchmen. But he had no way to signal Amanda of his plan. And if he went first, there was no way she could fight them off and join him.

  He glanced at the tunnel a final time, turned away and reached for Amanda’s hand. She squeezed his and smiled bravely. Together they faced the Monsignor.

  * * *

  “We are returning to Saint Catherine’s Church. We will talk when we get there,” the Monsignor announced. Otherwise they rode in silence in the Lincoln Town Car, Cam and Amanda crammed together in the back seat between two of the Monsignor’s men.

  Cam forced himself to stay patient. The man to his left, who had been tense and alert as they walked back through the woods, had begun to relax. In fact, he looked no older than a college student. The longer Cam remained calm, the longer it appeared he was not a risk to flee or fight, the more likely he would be to have the element of surprise on his side. If he and Amanda could break away from their captors, he was confident they could outrun them. Again. Unless, of course, the Monsignor chose to chase them with bullets this time.

  Fifteen minutes later they pulled into the front driveway of a sprawling, multi-gabled, brownstone church. “Please escort our guests to the basement,” the Monsignor ordered. “I will join them there shortly.”

  The two young men from the Town Car ushered them through the massive mahogany front door. As the lead man opened the door with a pair of fingers, its weight perfectly balanced on the hinges, Cam wondered at the audacity of the Monsignor. Not only was he bringing his prisoners to his church, he wasn’t even bothering to bring them in a back door.

  They wound their way around the sanctuary and down some stairs to a windowless, blue-carpeted meeting room with a series of cheap, religious-themed paintings on the walls. The men motioned for them to take seats around a rectangular mahogany table, closed the door and left them alone. The room smelled of heating oil and was inordinately warm, as if an old furnace was cranking on the other side of one of its walls.

  “Any chance they left that door unlocked?” Amanda asked.

  “What’s that exp
ression? A snowball’s in hell.”

  “Appropriate.”

  The door opened and Monsignor Marcotte, resplendent again in his green-trimmed velvet robe, entered in and offered a kind smile. “I’m aware of what happened to your dog.” He bowed his head in sympathy.

  Cam clenched his fists. Would they suffer a similar fate? “Look, cut the bullshit, all right? You found us, you have us, we know we can’t escape. But spare us your whole sympathy act.”

  The Monsignor’s brow furrowed, as if he seemed truly surprised by Cam’s comment. But Cam wasn’t fooled—he had seen the whole lying priest act before. Marcotte stood and paced partway around the table before sitting again opposite them. He shook his head slowly. “I am sorry. Truly sorry. I owe you both a tremendous apology.” He focused his serene, clear blue eyes first on Cam, then on Amanda, and ran his fingers through his well-coiffed gray hair. “You are not my … prisoners … here.” His mouth contorted as if the word tasted rancid on his tongue. “You are free to go at any time.” He stood again, walked over to the door and opened it. “Truly.”

  They exchanged glances. Something didn’t add up. “You mean we can leave? Right now?” Cam challenged.

  “Yes,” the Monsignor nodded gravely.

  “Then why the whole chase through the woods over in Tyngsboro?”

  The cleric sighed. “I have left numerous messages for you, both with your cousin and with Lieutenant Poulos. But you have not returned my calls. I have urgent information for you and it seemed like tracking you down was the only way to deliver it. We chased you,” he shrugged, turning his palms to the sky in exasperation, “because, well, because you ran from us.”

  “How do you explain this room?” Amanda swept the room with her arm.

  “I thought you would prefer to meet down here, away from windows and prying eyes. I meant the room as a sanctuary, not a prison. Again, you may leave at any time. But I do hope you stay—we have much to discuss.”