by C. M. Palov
‘Yañez deeded the properties to the prince in order to safeguard those particular fortresses from the covetous papal emissaries.’
‘I guess you know what the next question is going to be.’ Edie leaned forward in her chair. ‘Which four properties made the cut?’
‘Alcañicies, San Pedro de Latarce, Ponferrada and Faro,’ the nobleman replied, tapping his fingertip on four different locations on the medieval map.
‘Why these four?’ Caedmon inquired, certain now that Fortes de Pinós had hidden the Evangelium Gaspar at one of the four fortresses.
The Marqués shrugged. ‘I presume it was because a piece of the Lignum Crucis was safeguarded at each fortress.’
Edie glanced over at Caedmon. ‘Since you’re my Latin go-to guy, I’ll ask you: what’s a lignum crucis?’
‘It’s Latin for “the True Cross”,’ Caedmon replied. ‘Pieces of which were brought to Spain from the Holy Land.’
‘“Lignum cruces arbor scientiae”,’ the Marqués recited solemnly. ‘“The wood of the cross is the tree of knowledge.”’ Pronouncement made, he grasped the joystick and navigated the motorized wheelchair to the sideboard on the other side of the room.
Caedmon let the older man pass without comment; he’d gleaned all that he could from the nobleman. Now that he had actionable intelligence, he and Edie needed to be on their way.
Anxious to depart, he set the half-cocked flintlock on top of the desk.
The Marqués pulled the stopper on a cut-crystal decanter. ‘Full-bodied and potent, the 1994 Vega Sicilia Unico is a sentimental favorite. Not only was it an exceptional year for a venerable wine, but a memorable year as well. June of 1994 was the last time that I could make love to my wife, my mistress and the upstairs maid in the course of a single day.’
Purposefully ignoring the older man’s braggadocio, Caedmon held the map aloft. ‘Don Luis, may I have this photocopied map of the Kingdom of Castile and Léon?’
The Marqués waved a hand, indicating that he was free to take the map. ‘If you’re successful in finding the Evangelium Gaspar, I ask only that you send me a copy of it. I would be very interested to know the secret that my ancestor took to his grave.’
‘By all means,’ Caedmon replied. He folded the map and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Getting to his feet, he offered Edie a helping hand.
‘Be forewarned, Señor Aisquith, the Church very badly wants what you seek.’ Raising his wine glass, the Marqués de Bagá smiled caustically. ‘Go with God.’
Caedmon inclined his head in the nobleman’s direction. ‘Good day, Don Luis.’
‘So all we have to do is figure out at which of the four fortresses Fortes de Pinós hid the gospel,’ Edie said a few moments later as they descended the grand staircase.
At the bottom of the steps, Caedmon took hold of Edie’s elbow and ushered her across the reception hall. ‘Given the clues embedded within the Chinon riddle, I have reason to believe that – Good God!’
Caedmon stopped in his tracks at seeing the elderly housekeeper slumped over in a velvet-covered armchair. She was drenched in blood and skewered to the chair with a gleaming broadsword.
Horrified, he rushed over to her.
Too late!
Her throat slashed, the poor woman had already given up the ghost.
34
Hurled into the depths of a hellish maelstrom, Edie opened her mouth to scream.
In that same instant, pivoting in her direction, Caedmon slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling what would undoubtedly have been a piercing screech.
Horrified by the gory scene, she stared, her stomach roiling at the sight of the murdered housekeeper. Somewhere inside Casa de Pinós a psychopath was on the loose!
‘We mustn’t let the killer know that we’re here,’ Caedmon warned in a low voice as he turned her away from the ghastly sight. ‘Focus on your breathing. Can you do that?’
Incapable of speech, Edie gulped a serrated breath; a mouthful of air that got stuck midway between her mouth and her lungs.
Only a monster would kill a defenseless gray-haired woman.
‘We have to warn the Marqués,’ Caedmon whispered in her ear. ‘Are you composed enough to accompany me upstairs?’
Not about to remain alone in the reception hall, Edie nodded, still too petrified to speak.
Taking hold of her hand, Caedmon hurriedly led her to the staircase. Ready to battle the monster, he had a fierce expression stamped on his face. Head throbbing, heart pounding, Edie could barely battle her fear let alone a deranged killer.
As they climbed the white marble staircase, she saw glossy drops of blood. Blood that she’d not noticed when they had descended the stairs a few moments ago.
At the top of the steps, Caedmon put a staying arm across her torso as he peered down the corridor. Edie tugged on his arm and pointed to the trail of blood drops that ran down the deserted hallway. Nodding, he gestured for her to stay put.
Thinking that a very bad idea, she moved her index and middle fingers in an ambulating motion. I’m coming with you! she silently mouthed.
Grim-faced, Caedmon gave his assent.
Side-by-side, they wended their way down the corridor. When they came abreast of the mounted display of medieval armaments, Caedmon pulled her aside. Perusing the display, he yanked a four-foot-long battleaxe off of the wall. With its sharpened blade, the weapon had once been capable of piercing the heaviest of helms. Edie knew that Caedmon, who did not suffer from weak-kneed principles, would use it to slay the monster.
Suddenly noticing a curved ghostly imprint, she pointed to the empty wall space.
‘He’s got a falchion sword,’ Caedmon whispered.
Hearing that, Edie unthinkingly reached up and snatched a small jeweled dagger, arming herself.
Just then a single shot loudly reverberated. A deafening boom caused by a spark hitting a wad of gunpowder. Someone just fired the flintlock pistol! Which meant that the killer was inside the study with the Marqués.
An instant later, Edie heard a muffled scream; one that was almost immediately silenced.
She froze, terror and shock coalescing on impact. The dagger slipped through her fingers, clattering on to the floor. From chest to head and back again, her pulse fiercely pounded.
The battleaxe grasped in his right hand, Caedmon yanked her away from the wall display.
‘Follow my lead!’ he ordered.
Relieved that they were charging back to the staircase, Edie was bewildered when Caedmon suddenly veered towards a closed door. Yanking it open, he pulled her across the threshold and hurriedly locked the heavy wooden door behind them. Disoriented, she wondered what they were doing on the ‘Bridge of Sighs’, the narrow passage illuminated with sunshine that streamed through mottled leadlight windows.
‘Wh-why the d-detour?’ she stammered as they rushed across the bridge to the closed door on the other side of the overpass.
‘Because we don’t know how many accomplices the killer has with him. If we exit on the other side of the quadrangle, we can hopefully escape without detection,’ Caedmon informed her as he reached for the handle on the wooden door. ‘Damn! It’s locked.’
Muttering a few choice expletives, he banged on it with his left fist.
To no avail.
‘Did you bring your lock-picking kit?’
Caedmon shook his head. ‘It’s in the trunk of the rental car inside my duffel bag.’
Gesturing to the old-fashioned lock assembly, she said, ‘Maybe you can break the lock with the battle–’ Hearing a loud crashing sound, she stopped in mid-sentence. In stupefied horror, she watched as the Marqués, seated in his motorized wheelchair, crashed through the study window. Landing in the courtyard below, he lay sprawled on the cobblestones. Unmoving. His body surrounded by a glistening sea of broken glass.
Hit with a burst of primal fear, Edie screamed.
‘H-he d-d-doesn’t have a –’
Head! The killer had decapitated him.
>
Edie’s heart pounded in her ears. A thundering din. Suddenly dizzy, she swayed.
Afraid she would collapse on to the floor, Edie clutched hold of the stone window frame to keep herself upright, her legs quivering unsteadily.
‘Damn bloodthirsty bastard!’ Caedmon rasped as he pushed open one of the gothic-style windows. Propping the battleaxe against the stone wall, he leaned his upper body out of the opening.
‘Wh-what are doing?’
‘We need to escape this death trap. Particularly since nobody seems to be on the premises other than the two of us and a cold-blood killer. There’s a cast-iron drain pipe attached to the exterior wall. It appears sturdy enough.’
‘To do what!?’ she screeched.
‘I would think that’s obvious.’ Caedmon put a steadying hand on her shoulder. ‘The drain pipe will support each of us as we descend to the courtyard. It’s no more than fifteen feet to the bottom. Do you wish to go first or shall I?’
Edie peered out of the open window. Fifteen feet never looked like such a vast distance. ‘You go first. That way you can catch me if I fall,’ she told him, her legs still wobbly.
‘Right.’ Caedmon picked up the battleaxe and, leaning out the window, let it drop on to the cobbles. That done, he swung a leg over the window sill and, ducking his head, went through the window.
Sucking in a mouthful of air, Edie held her breath as she watched him grab hold of the sturdy cast-iron pipe. A moment later, he slid to the ground. No sooner did he make landfall than Edie heard a clanging noise on the far side of the bridge.
Someone was trying to break the lock!
She hastily clambered over the window sill. Mimicking Caedmon, she balanced herself on the stone ledge adjacent to the pipe. Clinging to the sill, she rested her cheek on the sandstone, afraid to look down. Frozen in place.
‘Edie, stop puttering about!’
‘I c-c-can’t m-m-move!’
Panic-stricken – her dread fear of heights kicking in – she whimpered.
‘Come on, love. You can do this,’ Caedmon prodded, his tone noticeably softened.
A gentle breeze lifted her skirt hem. As though she’d just been hit with a gale force wind, her fear escalated tenfold. Paralyzed, she clung to the stone. ‘I can’t do this, Caedmon. You’re going to have to –’
The door at the other end of the bridge suddenly swung open.
The killer! He’s coming for me!
Edie let go of the sill and reached for the cast-iron pipe, her fear of death greater than her fear of heights. Again imitating Caedmon, she clutched the cylinder between her hands. Pressing her thighs against the surprisingly warm metal, she slithered safely to the cobbles.
She spared a quick upwards glance. Framed in the open window, snarling malevolently, was a rabid animal in the guise of a man.
‘Come! There’s no time to waste!’
Together they charged across the courtyard and rushed through the corridor that led to the street exit. When they reached the metal-studded door, Caedmon flung it wide open.
‘What the bloody hell is that doing on the pavement?’
Directly in front of them, blocking the exit, was a white service van. Holding the battleaxe in his right hand, Caedmon banged on the van with his left.
Within seconds, the vehicle’s back door slid open with the jangling grate of metal on metal. Standing in the opening, a semi-automatic weapon gripped in his right hand, was Hector Calzada.
‘Buenos dias, amigos.’ Smiling savagely at Caedmon, he aimed the gun directly at Edie’s head. ‘One false move, cabrón, and the pretty lady will go adíos.’
35
‘What the hand dare seize the fire?’
One emblazoned with a Chi-Rho cross, Caedmon thought dispiritedly, forced to watch as Hector Calzada proceeded to put to the flame a folder confiscated from the Marqués de Bagá’s study that contained all of the evidentiary documents that the Marqués had compiled for his court case against the Vatican. Many of the records were centuries-old documents and pertained to the Knights Templar. Heartsick, he stared at the smoldering pile; parchment, vellum and paper, all consigned to the fire. Lost forever.
With the evidence destroyed, the Sovereign Order of the Temple would likely be forced to drop their lawsuit.
Displaying a pyromaniac’s intemperate glee, Calzada ripped a last sheet of vellum out of its Mylar sleeve. Brows drawn together, he held it at arm’s length and scrutinized it. Then, chortling, he dropped it on to the small makeshift bonfire that he’d lit on the cobbles in the alleyway.
A barbarian of the first order.
After being subjected to a humiliating body search, he and Edie had been whisked into the back of the van and driven to the alleyway. Although he had no idea where precisely they were currently parked, the Moorish style architecture of the nearby buildings suggested that they were still in Madrid’s Latin district.
Finished with his task, Calzada grabbed a long-necked green bottle from his cohort, the homicidal maniac who’d slain the Marqués and his elderly housekeeper. The sword-wielding executioner, who had yet to utter a single word, used a primitive sign language to communicate with Calzada. Caedmon deduced that the man was incapable of speech. He also assumed that the mute was the third ‘bandito’ who’d been in India, Roberto Diaz. With his wispy goatee and shaved head, the bloodthirsty thug bore little resemblance to the passport photograph that he’d examined in Fort Cochin. A fact which presumably enabled Diaz to shadow them to Madrid. For all he knew, the bastard had been on their same flight.
Seating himself in the van’s open doorway, Calzada belched, the pair having toasted their murder spree with a bottle of Dom Pérignon that they’d nicked from Casa de Pinós.
Caedmon, huddled next to Edie in the van’s cargo hold, could only fantasize about taking his revenge. If he went full tilt, Calzada would draw the Beretta semi-automatic that was shoved into his waistband and reward his ill-considered heroics with a nine millimeter bullet to the brain. Or, even more horrific than that, his swordsman would behead him. A falchion, with its blocky, curved blade, required little finesse, having been a favorite with crusading foot soldiers.
As though he’d suddenly read Caedmon’s mind, the mute raised the falchion in a threatening fashion. Growling like a rabid animal, he forcefully thumped on his chest with his balled left fist.
The macho theatrics set Edie to trembling.
‘Look away,’ he urged in a low voice, the sight of that well-honed blade unsettling to an extreme.
Averting her gaze, Edie, instead, peered over at him, her eyes brimming. Caedmon could see that she was holding on to her emotions by a very fragile thread, a tear breaking free from its mooring and rolling down her face.
‘Hey, Bella, I also shed tears,’ Calzada said, pointing to a blue teardrop that was tattooed in the corner of his right eye. ‘But do not hold it against Roberto that he takes pleasure in a job well done.’
Sadistic pleasure at that, Caedmon silently appended.
‘There were three of you in India. Evidently, Cerberus has lost one of its snarling heads,’ he remarked, trying to steer the bastard’s attention away from Edie.
‘Que!?’ Calzada stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘I refer, of course, to your companion, Javier Aveles.’
‘He stayed behind to keep an eye on the Indian bitch.’ Closing his eyes, Calzada smiled wistfully. ‘That one makes my prick twitch. Same goes for the daughter.’ Opening his eyes, he looked over at Edie. ‘You, too, Bella. I could fuck all three of you.’
Caedmon glared at the mustachioed Bête Noire, rage hardening his belly. He very badly wanted to smash his fist in the other man’s face.
‘What’s the matter, English? You look constipated. Did I say something to upset you?’ Calzada raised the champagne bottle and took a noisy slurp. Wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve, he looked over at his cohort. ‘Hey, homie, toss me that bag.’
In the process of cleaning the blood off t
he falchion blade with a dirty rag, the mute stopped what he was doing and passed Edie’s leather satchel over to Calzada.
Setting the bottle down, the Bête Noire unzipped the bag and unceremoniously dumped its contents on to the floor of the van. With a cavalier air, he rifled through Edie’s personal effects. Passport. Purse. Lipstick. Hairpins. Nail file. iPad. Sunglasses. Wearing a fool’s grin, he plucked a cellophane-wrapped peppermint from the messy pile and ripped it open with his teeth. ‘Umm. Menta, my favorite. Gracias, Bella.’
‘My pleasure,’ Edie muttered.
A few moments later, as he removed a Nikon D3X from a separate camera bag, Calzada whistled appreciatively. ‘Somebody likes to take pictures. How much this set you back?’
‘It’s for my job. I’m a photographer,’ Edie informed him in a quavering voice, clearly upset that he was handling her camera.
‘That’s not what I asked, Bella.’
Bending her head, Edie stared at the ribbed floor of the van. ‘It cost five thousand dollars,’ she murmured dejectedly, no doubt fearing it would soon become a sunken cost.
‘I always wanted a good camera. You can’t take a picture worth shit with a cell phone.’ Leaning against the van’s open doorway, Calzada bent a knee. Languidly swinging his other leg, he proceeded to review the photographs stored in memory. ‘The old dude had a high opinion of himself, didn’t he? You can see it in his face. That fucker got what was coming to him. Isn’t that right, homie?’
Diaz grinned, showing off a gold-plated tooth.
‘Hey, I got a good idea –’ he handed the camera to Diaz – ‘I want you to take my picture with Bella.’
The comment elicited a terrified whimper from Edie.
Patting the spot next to him, Calzada said, ‘Slide your ass over here so Roberto can shoot the photo.’
When Edie balked, refusing to budge, Caedmon gently nudged her with his elbow. ‘Do as he says,’ he urged, worried that her truculence might antagonize the pair. Calzada and his ‘homie’ had violent predilections, killing for the sheer joy of it. The wise course of action was appeasement. As distasteful as that was.