by K. T. Tomb
“Perhaps he has gone home to the women,” Richard said hopefully.
Saladin shook his head. “No. They took him. I only hope the thieves will ransom him back to me. He is like a son. I would give much gold to have him back.”
“So would I,” Richard said. “I will help you find him and take him back.”
“No. The sole burden of recovering him is mine. You have other worries, King Richard,” Saladin said.
Richard shook his head as they surveyed the destroyed camp. The wounded came out of their wrecked tents, bloody and ashamed that they were not either dead or pursuing the bandits. Andre carried a shovel.
The bodies of the three dead were lined up next to each other. Richard recognized those who had been on guard over the gold. His gaze fell on the third, the mapmaker, Pierre de Mandeville, who had been a formidable soldier with even more formidable aspirations—he had been a man who desired power far greater than his birthright allowed.
Yes, he had been a fool. What had de Mandeville hoped to gain by revealing the resting place of the Holy Grail and making a map to it? Gold? And just where was that map?
Richard had just given him, along with the other soldiers, more gold than any soldier deserved to have or could even feasibly carry. And yet, de Mandeville had not understood, had not obeyed, and therefore, had not lived.
“Let us bury them,” Richard ordered. Both kings helped Andre scoop the sand on top of them, making the small telltale mounds that punctuated the desert near deserted campgrounds and villages.
“I have something to tell you,” Andre said to Richard, after they had cleaned their hands of soil and Saladin had walked into the bushes to relieve himself.
“Speak freely,” said Richard.
“My name is not Andre, as you know. You named me when I could not speak. My name is Levi and I am a Jew.” He paused as Richard smiled and clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder in friendship.
“Truly?”
“Sire, I wanted to tell you, up there, in the snow cave, but I did not yet have my tongue back.”
“Well, now you do. Why did you tell me this now, Levi?”
“So that you could know what you said in the cave was true, that people are a trinity. Not godly, but human, connected, as you said. That we are Muslim and Christian and Jew. And that we worship Allah and God and Yahweh, but that they are the same. I thought it fitting that you should know my secret. And know that I was present, a Jew, at the discovery of the Grail. I felt, if I am not being too pretentious by saying so, that my presence there completed the trinity of which you spoke. Of humanity.”
Richard was amazed. “Yes, you did! Thank you for telling me.”
“I also wanted to tell you that I can read and write. In Hebrew.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, I thought you might want to know that I remember what one of the Hebrew inscriptions read on the Holy Grail.”
“Tell me.”
“It went: ‘As I have loved you, so you must love one another.’ Roughly translated that is.”
“Ah,” Richard said. “From the Gospel of John.”
“Is it? I don’t know what that is,” Levi said and paused. “If you ever go back to Ararat, I want to go with you and search for the Ark.”
“Noah’s Ark!”
Levi laughed. “That, too. However, I was speaking of the Ark of the Covenant. No one else seemed to know it, but I believe that is the missing piece of the puzzle. It is the only thing that makes any sense in the context of all that we learned there.”
“Ah, thank you. Now I know the identity of the mysterious third divine relic on Mount Ararat. Of course, I wouldn’t go on that journey without you, Levi, a man who reads Hebrew and is very good at keeping secrets.”
“I see we understand each other, Your Majesty.”
“We do.”
“Are you going to retrieve Father Gustave from Jerusalem?” Levi asked.
“No, God doesn’t want me to go there, so I guess Gustave will find his way home, eventually. When he’s good and ready.”
“Are you going to tell him all that transpired?” Levi dared to ask.
Richard shook his head. “I think it would be too much for him to keep a secret from the Pope. And who knows what would happen if the Church had all of the details.”
“I agree,” said Levi, relieved.
They smiled at each other and Saladin came out of the bushes, dusting off his hands. “What did I miss?” he asked.
“A proposal for a new quest for spiritual truth, in God’s good time,” Richard said with a smile. “Perhaps you will want to join us on Mount Ararat again.”
“Ararat? I grow cold just thinking about it. Very well, but don’t make it too long from now. I’m old, or haven’t you noticed?” Saladin joked.
***
The bodies were left there, covered with desert sand and crosses made with stones laid on the ground at each of their heads.
A few of his warriors wanted to pursue the thieves, but Richard knew this to be a lost cause. The thieves were gone, and they were protected by God above. The thieves had a divine mission to fulfill: to deposit the gold in God’s pre-ordained location. He had no doubt that the leader of the thieves would be vastly rewarded through his diligent adherence to God’s command; just as Richard and Saladin had been. Therefore, Richard forbid any pursuit of the thieves, even though they were also murderers and kidnappers. For one, Richard trusted God for retribution and he was just about finished with playing God’s role.
“We have just one piece of business to finalize, my friend, my brother,” Saladin said.
Richard nodded. Finally, he sat at his broken table, propped up with a rock by Levi, and signed the treaty with Saladin, whereby the Muslims would retain control of Jerusalem but officially allow Christian pilgrimages. England would be granted control of Daron and Jaffa. It was less than Richard had hoped for, but perhaps even the King of England had learned to respect the mighty Saladin’s wisdom and foresight. And he had learned how to compromise and recognize another king’s burden, as well as his power.
Now, with the treaty signed, Muslims and Christians alike, and one Jew, picked up what was left of their camps, nodded farewell and rode their separate ways.
For the time being.
The sun was just making its way over the distant horizon, its orange and gold beams streaming toward Heaven. Somewhere over that distant line lay Jerusalem, the holiest of holy cities, but it was not to be his.
The air was cold and King Richard, the Lionheart, son of England and France, was ready to go home.
The End
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THE SWASHBUCKLERS
A novel by
K.T. TOMB
The Swashbucklers
Published by K.T. Tomb
Copyright © 2014 by K.T. Tomb
All rights reserved.
The Swashbucklers
Introduction
Aberdour Castle,
Fife, Scotland
The reviewing and pre-selecting of potential new members was an arduous task and very time consuming for the administrators at Quests Unlimited.
They were required to read through the files of potential members carefully, assess their credibility, review their accomplishments and judge their compatibility with the club’s objectives and current membership.
Mostly they were novices, thrown into an adventure by pure happenstance and were never heard from again. It was the administrator’s job to quantify if that was the case or if there was a possibility they had discovered the next enigma in relic hunting or adventuring.
Donovan led the team of twelve people who performed this function at Quests Unlimited and, over the years, he had come to think of the standard yellow manila folders that sat in piles on their desks as blips… blips on a radar. A radar that was constantly scouting the world for fellow adventurers.
He pulled another from the pile and opened it.
Applicant(s)
name: Manny McMillan and Kang Xiaopin, ‘The Swashbucklers.’
Occupation: Treasure Hunters
Key accomplishment: Treasure chest of pirate Captain Boysie Marlowe
Proof provided: Yes
Type of proof: Treasure chest kept at McMillan Manor
Applicant(s) status: Pre-selection
He took a deep breath and started reading...
At twenty-four-years old Manny McMillan, grandson of Padraig McMillan, found out he was practically left out of his wealthy grandfather’s will. This, of course, left him furious.
Apart from a cheap old briefcase, a DVD and a piece of old paper, Manny had inherited nothing. But after watching his grandfather’s charismatic video recorded on the disk, Manny was soon on his way to the Caribbean island of Montserrat and in the middle of a modern-day treasure hunt.
The prize, as described by Paddy McMillan, was Captain Boysie Marlowe’s legendary lost pirate horde.
Donovan, despite himself, grinned. He loved a good treasure hunting story.
He picked up his coffee mug, flipped the next page, and settled in with the file...
Chapter One
People say that James Brown was the Godfather of Soul, and that’s true enough.
But if the Godfather of Soul had one soul in the world to thank, then that would probably be Padraig McMillan, the kingmaker.
You’ve probably never heard of him, but if there was a major record label merger, or a genre-defining development in soul, you could thank Paddy for it. Word had it that Gordy Jr. even sought his advice before starting Motown. Every time you heard a Supremes record, “Please Mr. Postman” by The Marvelettes, anything by Smokey Robinson, or the entire Marvin Gaye back catalog; a couple of cents found their way to Padraig McMillan.
The way Padraig told it, he’d bedded more famous singers than any money-man in Detroit; back when the city meant something other than dilapidated buildings and the ghosts of the motor industry. Of course, he said, he never allowed them to sleep with him before they cut the records; that would be unbecoming of a righteous man.
That said; if they felt grateful enough after they were climbing the charts, he wasn’t going to turn down Diana Ross.
Whether or not he had really made it with every female hit singer in Detroit was a secret that Paddy took to his grave at age 84. Naturally, the McMillan family members were sad, but the Old Man had been a hard-drinking, cigar aficionado with a penchant for cocaine in his youth, so the only surprise was that he had lasted so long. Emphysema took him; this giant of Soul Music, who for a short decade or two was the coolest man on the face of the earth.
Naturally, Manny McMillan, the youngest of seven grandchildren, hated the old man’s guts. It was bad enough, in his mind, to be the youngest in a family of vastly over-achieving all-star suck-ups but what was the point in being so ridiculously wealthy if all you did was go and toss it all away on earning a ‘solid educational foundation’. It’s what his grandfather had told him every day for the last five years. His relatives’ achievements plagued him every day: a doctor, a lawyer, an assistant D.A, the vice president of an industrial equipment manufacturing company, an actor currently leading in an opera in Rome, and a major league baseball player.
In Manny’s opinion, only his baseball playing cousin, Ronnie, was remotely cool. That had nothing to do with him playing ball; baseball was for dorks. He was just a cool guy, didn’t give Manny any shit for living his life. Not like Gramps.
Manny felt that, since he had a family-backed credit card, a life of ease was no less than deserved. At twenty-four years old, he had very few interests outside swimming, Xbox, parties and, of course, the one thing that he felt admiration for was his grandfather’s legendary prowess in the acquisition of beautiful women.
His older sisters and cousins didn’t get it at all; they worked 60 hours a week covered in blood and gore, or neck-deep in lawsuits. What’s the point when you had the means do what you want?
The best thing about hearing the reading of the Old Man’s will was that he would surely no longer be accountable to his parents for explaining the escalating credit card bills. He didn’t know if it would be property, cars, or just cold, hard cash, but he was sure he was in for a fortune.
Manny, of course, was wrong.
He sat slouched in the office of J. William Wright & Sons, lawyers for the McMillan family over the past half-century, watching the first light winter snow in upstate New York settle on the windowsill.
The somehow still not dead, J. William Wright Sr. nasally reeled off a list of property, cars, cash, rights to Motown songs, stock options in at least two dozen blue chip companies, and some inexplicably valuable works of art by guys named Pollock and Rothko, there were pictures to illustrate what they were.
Manny decided if these hacks could just paint a load of blocks and splotches, maybe he could do that. Art looked easy and chicks dig it. He was in a half daydream involving Jessica Alba and Scarlett Johansson, when someone calling his name brought him back to reality.
“To my youngest grandson, Emmanuel,” the antiquated lawyer said. He looked like he was about to keel over from standing up so long. “I leave my briefcase and the contents therein.”
Manny waited. Maybe the old buzzard had died on his feet, or he’d had a stroke mid-sentence. Nothing happened for a moment, and Manny was sure his heart had stopped beating in anticipation during the pregnant pause. The lawyer cleared his throat.
“This concludes the last will and testament of Padraig Murray McMillan, recorded on this day…”
Manny’s hearing was suddenly impaired by blood rushing into his ears. His heart had not stopped, after all, actually, it was now racing. Maybe the Old Man had left him something valuable in his case. Something special, that he didn’t want the other descendants to know about, in case they got jealous.
Part way through his second daydream in as many minutes, he was again interrupted, this time by the perpetually disappointed face of his father. The rest of the family was getting up to leave. His father’s eyes were a little downcast, not that Manny could fathom why having just inherited a private island and everything on it.
He was graying at the brow and losing his hair at a staggering rate, though he was still on the right side of fifty and looking at him caused Manny to unconsciously run his hand over his own shaved scalp. He hoped he didn’t end up bald like that. His father was looking more like the aging Sidney Poitier by the day; his broad, wrinkled forehead jutted massively and what used to be a neck was more of a continuation of shoulders.
Like his father and Grampy Padraig, Manny shared their cruiserweight build. It was a constant reminder to him that he too would find himself going to seed early unless he continued going to the gym and the pool.
“Son, I know you’re not happy. Just give Gramps the benefit of the doubt. He was a smart man, smarter than you and I put together. Mr. Wright has the briefcase here.”
His father sighed slightly. His gut sagged with the motion, reminding Manny to do some sit ups later.
Manny forced a smile.
“It’s okay, Pops. I’m sure he’s just playing around with me. I mean, he wouldn’t leave me out completely, right?”
His father smiled the same smile as his son. Despite all the things the McMillan family was capable of doing better than most, faking happiness was not one of them.
Chapter Two
The briefcase was in decent condition, considering its apparent age.
Manny could vaguely remember it being on his Gramps’ opulent yet stylish desk in his Hamptons residence, back when he could barely see over the mahogany lip. The leather had faded, and he could see where his grandfathers’ fingers had worn patches in it.
Manny waited until he was at home—well, the apartment his parents paid the rent for in Greenwich Village—before opening the clasps to inspect the contents of the case. He had been anticipating this day since he had been old enough to understand that money was what made the world go round. To h
is chagrin, there were no diamonds, bundles of cash, or keys to an Aston Martin in there.
What Manny found instead, was a piece of carefully rolled yellowed parchment, and a rewritable DVD in a plastic sleeve.
His name was carefully printed on it in marker. Padraig’s hands had shaken quite badly towards the end of his life, and it was evident here. The straight lines of the M and Y were terribly crooked. First, Manny unrolled the parchment, which was tiny, no bigger than his palm. It bore a crude drawing in ink. It looked like…a crappy cheap treasure map. Like the ones Manny and his brothers had made as kids, staining paper with black tea to give it that worn out aged look. He had the urge to throw it in the fire he had going in the fireplace but settled for crumpling it a bit and tossing it on the couch.
As he pressed the ‘open’ button on the DVD player and slid in the disk, Manny felt a little numb. When he clicked play on the remote, he wasn’t surprised to see his grandfather appear on the screen. He looked better than he had at the end, but still old. The video had been recorded probably a year ago; no, a year and a half, judging by the warm spring garden that could be seen over the shoulders of Padraig McMillan, as he sat at his formidable desk.
“Hello, Manny.”
Manny fought the urge to say hello back, then immediately felt stupid for thinking it.
“You’re probably quite upset with me at the moment, but just let me tell you something; tough shit. You’re a bum, and I don’t waste my money supporting bums. Now, that’s not to say I decided to disinherit you. You’re still the youngest in the family, so I think that maybe you just need a little motivation so you can stop being such a bum.
“I want you to know that I instructed my lawyer to keep an eye on you, in case a miracle happened after my death, and you turned your life around. It’s not important what it is, I don’t care if you’re trying to make money or if you’re volunteering at the homeless shelter but my hope is, you’re doing something, and if that’s the case, Mr. Wright has instructions to make a proviso in my will to look after you. If not…well, you’re hearing me talk to you now, so I guess that explains all you need to know about it.”