Mansell looked through the window at the landscape. Sparse rays of moonlight penetrated the cloud, reflecting brilliantly off the ripples of the lake. The scene was idyllic.
‘Then all the more reason to monitor their progress.’
Alone in the chapel, the abbot knelt in prayer. The ceremony of initiation was over. No longer was he adviser to the most high. Today, he was the most high.
He looked to his right at the stained-glass window. The image of Bernard of Clairvaux glowed mystically, its panels reflecting the distant candles. The meaning was real, but he was one of a few who understood it.
A new Keeper had emerged from the darkness.
21
Kilwinning, North Ayrshire
A black Peugeot pulled up in a deserted car park located close to the ruined abbey. Matt Anson emerged seconds later from the driver’s side and instantly began stretching his legs. The journey had been relatively short, but his face illustrated his tiredness.
Since his return to Scotland, he had only one thing on his mind. What was the secret of the Kilwinning Scroll: this surprisingly large piece of material that his father clearly valued enough to have delivered to him before his death but apparently not important enough to tell him about during his life. The more he found himself thinking about it, the more he found himself torn between the possibilities. Though there was still no way to confirm that the scroll or the letter written by Gaspar Corte-Real were definitely genuine, he couldn’t help feel that Sandra must be right.
The Seal of Solomon was key. How could anyone perpetrate the use of the symbols without knowing their exact meaning?
They collected Sandra from Edinburgh and spent the night at his father’s house, a stone’s throw from Kilwinning. Although he had only met her once, she embraced him like a lost friend. The sensation was unreal. As he drove west, the streetlights of Edinburgh flashed by, illuminating the night like a continual strobe light. His mind thought about everything and nothing. Every time he looked in the rear-view mirror, he saw her looking at him, smiling. The sensation was disturbing: both arousing and unnerving. Ever since their return, Scott had teased him: the banter non-stop sex. The woman was a beaut; that much was undeniable. But something still unsettled him.
Who was this woman, and what was her connection with his father?
Scott got out of the car through the passenger door and pushed the seat forward for Sandra. Black trainers concealed sports socks, matching her tracksuit bottoms. She wore a brown fleece, complementing her physique, and a black woolly hat covered most of her hair. She carried a selection of notes on the location, including internet printouts and a scanned copy of the scroll. Sandra smiled at both as she left the car before walking in the direction of the ruined abbey. Although she had never visited the site before, she recognised it immediately – a combination of the illustrations on the scroll and researching the location on the internet.
It was nearly eleven in the morning on a Wednesday, and the location was deserted.
Less than twenty yards away, a black sedan pulled up in an empty bay. The occupant was invisible behind tinted glass reflecting the nearby world back like a mirror.
Inside, the brown-haired man named Stephane Degen sat quietly, his vision focused. He watched as the son of William Anson entered the abbey.
The abbey was located in the town of Kilwinning, in the county of North Ayrshire. The site was predominantly a ruin, with one large clock tower that dominated the skyline. Like most abbeys in Scotland, it was built in the mid 12th century on the site of a much older church, also believed to have been Christian. The building was made from freestone from the nearby quarry, most of which was later taken away and used on newer buildings and castles following its destruction. Although the abbey suffered in the Reformation, its destruction was gradual. By 1540 it had been plundered twice, and many of its valuables stolen or lost, though the abbey stood till at least 1571. According to legend, when a neighbouring laird launched a final attack on the abbey, a horseman dressed in black and white garments took its records away.
The town was small and historic and, being located on the west side of the Lowlands, was susceptible to rain. In the centre of town, small gatherings of people walked quickly, umbrellas up and raincoats on, heading in the direction of various low-key shops, most of which were deserted or closed. A large market cross had been erected along the high street in honour of Saint Winning, a former monk who allegedly founded the town in the 8th century.
The town was picturesque and peaceful. On summer days, a local, tourist or passer-by could stop for a drink outside an historic pub, or sit on a bench or the grass of a site whiling the time away admiring the views of the distant countryside.
The so-called Crossroads of Ayrshire, a town where the geography unites, was also a crossroad of history.
Matt led the way through a ruined archway and stopped to take in the view. The scene was familiar to him, complete despite the ruins. He visualised a complete structure: The archway led into what was once the choir area of the church. The outline of former windows decorated either side.
Sandra knelt down on the grass, examining ruined stone. The foundations were mostly rectangular and offered faint inscriptions along the verge. She recognised some of the symbols, mostly Tironensian Benedictine but also some pagan. The broken walls and arches were impeccable, containing countless clues to their origin. Even among the ruins, Knights of Arcadia symbolism was prevalent, ranging from carvings of characters from Scripture to the emblem of the order lining stone columns.
Sandra leaned closer to the ground. What remained beneath her was formerly a grave, long since demolished.
‘These graves were ransacked over four hundred years ago.’
Matt remained focused on the first archway, allowing himself to wander in the direction of the main altar. It was here the retrochoir had once existed, probably where the main shrine was sited. He imagined the area as it appeared in its heyday. The sky was bluer, the temperature warmer, and the decoration ornately religious. An abbot or monk of some renown was kneeling at a point in the earth, perhaps no less than five feet from where Sandra was kneeling.
A smile emerged on her face. ‘There were definitely graves here before the Dissolution.’
Matt looked once more at the archway. For several seconds he merely stared at it, his teeth biting against his lip. ‘This place is familiar.’
Sandra had removed photocopies of the scroll from her handbag and was reading them at speed. ‘It is,’ she said, turning the page and instantly turning back. ‘The graves are illustrated in the scroll.’
She continued to focus on the ground.
‘Years ago, all of these were graves.’ She cleared the grass with her hands and smiled, her attention on Matt. ‘Sir Gabriel de Anson was originally buried right here.’
Matt nodded, his vision on the site where Sandra was kneeling. The ground beneath her was predominantly green, flanked by mud, and demonstrated evidence of a rectangular outline that was now largely overgrown. Whatever edifice or monument once lay there was now broken, its remains consumed by weathering.
It was difficult to imagine that the whole area had once been inside an abbey.
Matt looked away, his focus again on the archway. The feeling of déjà vu was beginning to intensify. He closed his eyes and thought back to the last time he was at his father’s house, focusing his memory on the garden. There were four monuments in the grounds, all of which were scattered at random. The one he recalled was nearest the house. The monument was old, 18th century, artist unknown.
Matt opened his eyes and turned. The location was quiet, practically deserted. His focus stopped on the far wall. A man was approaching the wall, moving slowly in their direction. He was dressed in dark clothes, his face partially obscured by a woolly hat. His movement was unnatural. It was obvious from his stance that he was attempting to avoid attention.
Matt froze. His facial expression demonstrated his discomfort.
; Sandra looked at him. ‘Matt?’
‘What is it?’ Scott asked.
‘I swear that’s one of the guys who broke into our house.’
Scott looked over his shoulder and rose quickly to his feet. Over twenty metres away the stranger retreated slightly, disappearing behind the wall.
Scott moved quickly, accelerating to a jog and then faster still. He made his way through an open archway and slowed his pace as he moved along the wall. He was now near the main entrance of the former abbey. Directly in front of him, over two hundred metres of grass was surrounded by road.
He lost him; then he found him. The figure was sprinting, heading at an angle toward the bell tower.
Scott wasted no time. He darted quickly, keeping close to the wall.
Then he paused, using the wall to obstruct his presence.
Seconds later Matt appeared behind him, struggling to regain his breath.
For several seconds they waited.
The man had disappeared.
The monk named Stuart sprinted across the car park and changed direction as he approached the exit. The black sedan had been carefully parked less than five metres from the exit and facing in the correct direction. The sound of the engine thundered into life before driving away quickly.
Robert looked at the monk. ‘What happened?’
Stuart removed his woolly hat and shook his head. ‘Nothing. But his cousin saw me. They know they’re being followed.’
In another dark sedan, Stephane Degen waited patiently. After forty minutes of boredom, he looked on as the son of William Anson, his cousin and the academic entered a smartly presented Peugeot and drove off in the direction of the high street. Casually the driver turned on the ignition and followed.
22
Matt pulled off less than half an hour later at a secluded location off all of the main roads. Convinced they had not been followed, he agreed to Sandra’s request to stop at the nearby restaurant that was low-ceilinged, cosy and decorated primarily with brown oak furniture.
A smartly dressed waiter showed them to a four-seater table and immediately offered them menus. He started with Sandra. She ordered a vodka and tonic while Matt and Scott ordered beers. She smiled a second time as he departed in the direction of the bar.
Scott looked at her.
‘What?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘I think he likes you.’
Matt looked briefly over his shoulder and then across the table. Scott and Sandra were both sitting opposite. Scott’s attention was on the bar, while hers was on him.
She sought to speak but paused. The waiter had returned with their drinks in rapid time. He took the food order and departed, taking the opportunity to examine Sandra’s cleavage as he left. She sipped slowly from her drink as she watched him disappear before returning her attention to Matt. Her facial expression hardened.
‘Do you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?’
Matt looked at her and shrugged. ‘I don’t know; I know him less than you do.’
She bit her lip. ‘Not the waiter, I meant the abbey.’
Matt sipped from his pint and swallowed. A white moustache had appeared above his top lip.
Scott folded his arms. ‘Are you sure that was the guy?’
‘I’m certain.’
‘You saw his face?’
Matt hesitated. ‘No…it was the way he was. The movement…call it a hunch.’
Sandra leaned in closer. ‘Who? Who was he?’ Without intent, she was now holding his hand from across the table.
Realising her position, she released him. Scott smiled, first at Sandra, then Matt.
‘What happened?’
Matt remained silent.
‘Two guys broke into his father’s house,’ Scott said, ‘set off the burglar alarm, and then tried to sneak out undetected.’
Sandra looked back with concern. It was obvious Matt was being evasive. ‘Did they take anything?’
‘An old document and a painting located in a safe,’ Scott replied. ‘Must’ve known exactly what they wanted.’
She looked at Matt, confused. ‘What was it?’
He hesitated before answering. ‘The document was an old ship’s log. As best I could tell, it was related to one of my ancestors. Looked old.’
‘And the painting?’
‘There were two men, possibly shepherds, looking at a skull on a tomb.’
Her attention heightened. ‘What was it called?’
‘I couldn’t be sure. It said something about Arcadia.’
‘Et In Arcadia Ego!’
He looked at her. ‘I think so.’
Both men looked at Sandra.
‘Had you seen it before?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I’m no art expert.’
‘It sounds like you’re describing the painting of the Shepherds of Arcadia by Guercino. A very famous piece. Your father loved it.’
Matt nodded, watching her. Something else he didn’t know about his father. ‘You knew him better than me.’
She watched him.
‘You mind telling us what it means?’ Scott asked.
‘The original disappeared years ago, only copies remain. The painting is early 17th century. It’s a memento mori, an allegorical representation of two shepherds coming face to face with the death of a fellow herder.’
She paused.
‘Your father once said Guercino was entrusted with rare knowledge – knowledge he included in his paintings. He said Guercino was gifted. He even claimed to have evidence to prove it.’
Matt grimaced. What had been taken from the safe?
‘Coincidentally, Matt only found out about it earlier that day. Its contents were left in his father’s will.’
She eyed him, momentary silence passing. Several feet away, the same waiter walked past with a young married couple, the woman obviously pregnant. Sandra waited until they were out of sight before continuing. It was nearly 2pm, and the restaurant was still largely deserted.
‘Why would someone break into a house and take something so specific? Come on, tell me, who were they?’
Matt shook his head. ‘I’d never seen him before.’
Sandra pursed her lips.
‘What?’ Matt asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, adjusting her chair. She sipped quickly from her drink and surveyed the location. It was still deserted.
‘There were two men, both seemed to be highly trained; neither stole any obvious valuables. Hardly your average crack addict.’
‘And you’re sure the man you saw was one of them?’
He nodded.
Sandra looked at Matt. Her tongue swirled around her mouth, making an imprint on her inner cheeks. She looked up with interest as the waiter arrived with their food. He placed steaks and chips before Scott and Matt and a lasagne dish before her. He asked if they needed anything else before leaving, asking them to enjoy their meals. Sandra adjusted her cutlery and watched Matt and Scott decorate their food with sauce. The sound of ketchup leaving the bottle sounded more like a series of small farts, fading as they released their grip on the seam.
Sandra grimaced, her eyes on Matt. She watched him fill his mouth with chips.
‘What did you mean earlier when you said you’d seen that abbey before?’
Matt chewed quickly and swallowed. ‘There are monuments in the garden of the house – apparently they date back centuries. I could swear it’s the same.’
Sandra hesitated before starting her food. She cut a small piece of lasagne and chewed it slowly. The mince and tomato danced beautifully on her tongue.
‘Your father has a monument of that exact area?’
Matt nodded.
‘Describe it to me.’
Matt shrugged, wiping his mouth with a serviette. ‘Well, the abbey was slightly more in its prime. It was effectively the same archway…’ He paused again. ‘There’s a monk kneeling, I think…I don’t know.’
Sandra watched him with inte
rest. The scene was relevant.
‘The letter suggests the men from Portugal made a pilgrimage there. Something was buried there, once. And not just human remains.’
She watched both inquisitively. ‘How does the ground look?’
Another shrug. ‘Dunno really, I guess the floor is normal for an abbey, that sort of thing.’
She nodded.
‘And there’s a tomb where the monk was kneeling.’
‘Underground or above?’
‘Above. I think there might be an inscription on the top, but if there is, I couldn’t read it. Or at least I can’t remember it.’
Sandra took another mouthful of lasagne and immediately wiped her mouth. She finished chewing before opening her mouth again. ‘Is this the only monument?’
He shook his head. ‘No, there are four.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘Not really,’ he said, ‘I’d have to look again.’
Sandra’s mind was active. Perhaps someone from the past had left a physical reminder, a message to his descendents.
‘This interests me. If you don’t mind, I think I need to take a look.’
In a darkened chamber, the monk Robert knelt reverently before the new grandmaster and closed his eyes. He waited for instruction before raising his head.
‘Father, it seems the son of your nephew has become the owner of the legendary scroll of Gaspar Corte-Real.’
Winter exhaled, his chest heavy. He walked slowly in the direction of the altar and focused his attention on the stained-glass window. Any hint of early summer light was fading, and the countryside was enveloped in twilight. Within minutes the dark blue would turn to complete blackness, interrupted by occasional stars parting the scattered cloud. The scenery was beautiful.
‘The burden is much for one so young.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 15