by Des Sheridan
After twenty days they made landfall at the small port of Perros-Guirec on the red coast in northern Brittany. Murrough had wanted to sail up the Channel to Le Havre or Calais but the captain warned that a Parliamentary naval blockade was in place and such a course of action would invite disaster. So they had settled for the small Breton port. As the ship coasted in to shore, they passed the Grand Isle and watched the boats there flying the Breton flag, a distinctive black cross on a white background, as they loaded up with great pink granite slabs quarried from the island. After three weeks of ferocious tossing about on the Atlantic the calm, organised bustle of the boatmen caused the voyagers’ hearts to soar. Deliverance and dry land were at hand. And the man who had sacked Cashel in pursuit of the Triskell had no idea that one part of it had accompanied him on every nautical mile of this long voyage.
Murrough was heading for Paris, hoping to find the young exiled King Charles the Second resident there. He cajoled Guion to accompany him but the priest informed the Baron that his first duty was to make pilgrimage to Mont St Michel to give thanks for their safe deliverance. The two friends, for such they now were, parted company at the village of Lamballe with Guion promising dishonestly to visit Paris as soon as he could.
Thanks to a good horse, two days of hard riding culminated in Guion cantering up the gentle flank of Roz-sur-Couesnon and looking out at the scene below. Stretched out below the bluff, in the clear light of a fine crisp January day, the marshes led his gaze to the thin sandy causeway that traced a serpentine path out to the great island monastery of Mont Saint-Michel. The centre of pilgrimage was magnificent in its grandeur, the buildings rising skyward like a supplicant’s pair of hands, vaulted in prayer. It thrilled Guion to see it once again and he bent his head in prayer. He prayed earnestly that Áine, Donovan and William would make their destinations as safely as he had. Then, lifting his eyes, Guion watched the trail of pilgrims, tiny as ants from this distance, wind its way seaward along the track and his spirit rose. His brother was a Benedictine monk in the monastery and together they would create a safe hiding place for the Triskell in the vast stone fortress dedicated to the Archangel Michael.
Chapter 45
Ponferrada, Spain, 12 October 2014
Ponferrada is the last major stopping point on the Camino, the pilgrim trail that stretches from the Pyrenees to Santiago and the town is dominated by the ruins of a vast Templar Castle. Leandro assumed the couple would spend a while in the castle and then move on, but they lingered and seemed to be preoccupied with visiting every crevice, evidently searching for something.
There was no doubting the castle’s odd appeal. It was twelve-sided, each wall a different length and each tower shaped differently from the next, as though its Templar creators were fixated with never repeating themselves in its design. Some said the castle’s bizarre architecture carried a secret code and others that the Holy Grail was buried there. To Leandro’s eye the castle was fantastic to look at, as though Salvador Dali had a say in its design, with its spikey crenellated walls and oddly-shaped turrets and towers. The site was being extensively restored and he wondered if the restorers were adding flourishes to make it look more exotic. That would attract more tourists, he thought, and account for the slight hint of Disney about the place.
The couple persevered in their search, which made it difficult for Leandro to stay unobtrusive. So in the end he just did the obvious; he played the middle-aged man, happy to sit in the sun and watch others. That was how he became aware of the other watcher. A sensation of eyes boring into him seized him. It was irrational, he knew, but much too strong to be ignored. He rose to his feet and started to stroll, first this way, then that. After a few minutes he bent down suddenly and retied a shoelace, turning slightly as he did so. And there was the man. His pale skin marked him out as a foreigner and there was no doubt about it. He was watching Leandro - a short, broad-built and muscular man with curly black hair and an immobile, impassive face, as though it were carved in granite. There was something very still about his watchfulness and Leandro knew instinctively that he was a malevolent and mortal threat.
Panic riveted Leandro to the spot, and he wiped the nape of his neck with a blue checkered handkerchief to remove the drops of sweat that were beading there. It was unusually hot for October, but that wasn’t what was making him perspire. He was a fifty-three year old over-weight car mechanic, not James Bond. He really wasn’t equipped for this situation. But he wasn’t totally helpless either. In his youth he had learned from his politically activist father how to be cunning, careful and silent, and watch the fascists from a distance. Those skills, ingrained when he was young, were now his best hope of survival.
Chapter 46
Dorking, UK, 13 October 2014
Pascal peered in through the window. James Gascoyne-Cribb was sitting in his lounge reading The Times, no doubt as he always did when he had completed his early morning chores. Pascal knew that the bin was emptied, the cat fed and a wash cycle was spinning because his men had reported it to him. It was clear that James was an orderly man and now it was time to read the news and enjoy a cup of freshly-ground coffee.
When they burst in Pascal took the room in at a glance, scanning to see what it told him about the occupant. It was a long, fairly spacious lounge, situated four steps lower than the entrance hall to the house, and it ended at a pair of French windows that opened onto a secluded back garden. The room was tastefully furnished but in an outmoded fashion. From the modernist elm furniture, striped upholstery and wall storage units, Pascal dated it to the seventies. The furniture was good quality, the cushions and drapes expensive and the room carried its age well. Pascal surmised that it must reflect the taste of the late Mrs Gascoyne-Cribb. Most striking were the ornaments, which included Arts & Crafts metal candle holders, attached to the walls, and a wealth of thirties-style ceramics that reminded Pascal of his mother’s Deco ceramic collection in the morning salon at Weris. Modern oil paintings, of good quality and depicting conventional landscape themes, adorned the walls.
Startled by the intrusion of three strangers, James flung the newspaper down and, jumping to his feet, shouted indignantly,
‘I say, who the hell..!’
Erik pushed him savagely back down into the seat, sending both it and Mr Gascoyne-Cribb sprawling onto the floor. He then grabbed the man roughly by an arm, pulling him up onto his feet and throwing him onto the sofa.
‘Sit there and shut up!’ he shouted.
Pascal pulled up the overturned chair, and sat down on it backwards, so the he straddled the back upright, and faced the man.
‘You must forgive my friend, no manners, such a shame! But I need your help and I need it quickly.’
James looked like a startled old stork to Pascal, with an aquiline nose surmounted by two bushy fair eyebrows and a long head framed by two high-arched shoulders. He was a bony, craggy man with lanky fair hair that looked as though it could do with a wash. He was wearing a burgundy v-necked woollen cardigan over a Jermyn Street white checked shirt and his trousers were broad twill beige chords. The clothes were of good quality but Pascal noticed food stains on them. The blue eyes fixed on him were intelligent and arrogant, that much Pascal could see, and they watched him with a mixture of fury and fear. He could hear the man’s quickened breathing and see his nostrils twitching.
‘Look here, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can go to hell....’ responded James, spiritedly for a man in his late sixties, but he was truncated abruptly in mid-sentence by Erik viciously punching him hard in the testicles. The man let out a howl and doubled up in pain, momentarily silenced.
‘This is all so unnecessary,’ said Pascal irritably, getting up and pacing the room. His eyes fell on an object.
‘My! What a fine charger,’ he said picking up a large, ribbed plate that stood on a stand on a small windowsill to the side of the French windows. ‘Is it Charlotte Rhead?’
‘No it’s not, it’s Clarice Cliff. Look, I say, tha
t belonged to my wife’s mother, it....’
Pascal looked at James and smiling cut in.
‘It’s very beautiful? Is that what you were going to say?’
He held up the charger, which was about eighteen inches across for his companions to see. It was hand-decorated and showed a curved tree, with green and yellow stylised foliage on the left and a road lined with black spade-shaped trees and red-roofed houses on the right. The Art Deco image was beautiful and dreamy.
‘Yes, look please be careful with that, it’s an heirloom and very valuable. I want my grandchild....’
The crash of the ceramic piece hitting the stone tiled floor was followed by it shattering into pieces. Pascal’s hand remained poised in the air.
‘Oh dear me, how clumsy I am.’
James sprang to his feet, anger blazing in his sunken aged eyes. The piece was worth at least £30,000 and meant for his first and so far only grandchild, Ariadne. Clarissa had made him promise that before she had died.
‘You bastard, how dare you...’
And with that he lunged at Pascal, hands outstretched to throttle him.
Chapter 47
Ponferrada, Spain, 12 October 2014
After what seemed an eternity to Leandro, but was in fact just over four hours, the couple left the castle and walked into the town. He followed them checking once or twice over his shoulder that the man following him was still in tow. He was, and Leandro realised that, whoever he was, he was no expert in tailing someone without their knowing it. The couple in front stopped at a bar and Leandro found a nearby table. After a few minutes the other man, the watcher, passed by without stopping but Leandro got a good look at his retreating form, etching it into his brain.
Sitting close by the couple enabled Leandro to overhear their conversation, although their voices were low. The woman was talking.
‘It was a good idea, to follow the Camino outward from Santiago, but if the Triskell is buried here it might as well be the Holy Grail because we are not going to find it. What a place! You think that they would do the restoration work in cooler weather’.
The woman looked exhausted and sat fanning herself with her hat. But she was still beautiful under the patina of dust. Leandro was certain now. Up close, with her hat off, there was no doubt. It was the woman whose face had figured in his dreams.
The man spoke.
‘Yes, especially with the ground so parched. I couldn’t believe the clouds of dust that digger was churning up.’
The couple dipped into their tapas and after a while the woman spoke again.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking, Robert, I reckon we give this another two days max and then move on. Try Brittany. No point in flogging a dead horse.’
The tone was ostensibly matter of fact but conflicted with her flat and weary voice. Her companion looked surprised and Leandro suspected that it was not at all what the man expected to hear from her. The man responded quickly.
‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings, Tara. I have a couple of ideas left, but you may be right.’
As Leandro watched them finish their coffees the woman got up.
‘I’ll just pop to the loo,’ she announced and entered the bar. The man waved over the waiter to settle the bill. Of a sudden Leandro reached a decision on the issue that had been troubling him all day. There was no point in further hesitation; the presence of the other watcher forced his hand. Rising from his chair he brushed awkwardly past the man named Robert, then with a quick “Perdone me, senor” walked briskly on up the street.
Robert, thinking nothing of the encounter, counted out the notes and coins for the waiter as he rose from the table. The waiter smiled and said.
‘Gracias tanto, señor, es muy amable.’
Clearing away the cups and plates, he stretched out a hand, passing Robert a slip of paper.
‘Haga no foget esto, debe haber venido de su cartera.’
Robert’s Spanish certainly didn’t go as far as understanding what the waiter said in full, but he got the gist. The man thought that the paper must have come from Robert’s wallet. Taking it, Robert unfolded it and looked at it, then slowly sat down again in his seat.
Tara, returning from the ladies, called,
‘Come on, let’s get going. You look bushed. I will drive.’
‘Actually, Tara, I think you had better sit down for a minute.’
Seeing the serious look on his face, she ignored his suggestion.
‘What is it?’
‘A message for you,’ he said simply, handing her the piece of paper.
Chapter 48
Mont Saint-Michel, France, 2 July 1789
The monks sat around the Abbot in a circle as he imparted the latest news from the outside world. It was not heartening. The country appeared to be in turmoil with the Grand Peur sweeping south and central France.
The Abbot’s voice was tremulous and ridden with ill-concealed anxiety. He flapped his arms up and down like some great injured exotic bird such as those that Armand Bihan had seen illustrated in books in the library.
‘It is hard to make sense of it all. The Grand Peur seems to consist of local uprisings whereby folk, fearful of agitators causing upheaval ahead of the harvest, form groups to bring about precisely the same thing! Even though it is still but June and the harvest is two months away! It is insane! Of course priests and monks are being attacked, as though they ever did anyone harm. All we do is to uphold the natural order and pray for others to the Good Lord. There are even predictions of attacks upon the Monarchy itself. If you just read the newspapers it is terrifying! All kinds of pamphlets advocating liberty and justice abound in the towns!’
Armand thought that some of this sounded quite appealing but kept his opinion to himself. Father Abbot did not welcome alternative points of view. For him the purpose of discussion and debate was to hear his views affirmed.
‘And so we come to the central question. Do we await further developments or act now to disperse the Monastery’s treasures?’
The monks proceeded to explore a number of options in great detail without anyone expressing a firm view. That would not please the Abbot so everyone avoided the trap. Eventually, after about an hour’s discussion, and with many irrelevant diversions on obscure points of faith, the debate petered out and the outcome became clear. The Abbot had retreated into an ever deeper silence and it became apparent that, because he had no idea what was best to do, nothing at all would happen. The monks broke up and went their various ways. It had been like this for months and always the discussions fizzled out into inaction.
Armand went over to a window and looked out of the citadel shoreward. The view was pretty much as it always was. The low marshes, yellowed under the summer heat and spread out like butter on a slice of bread, extended evenly into the distance. No hint of mayhem or turmoil disturbed the tranquil scene. But for Armand a turning point had arrived. He wasn’t sure why but he felt sure that this time the disquiet in the country would spill over. He could sense it in the air when he eavesdropped on conversations by the market stalls on the Grand Rue. He would act now, making the most of the space afforded by the inaction around him, and take the Triskell away from this place. It was true that the Mont had never fallen to onslaught but Armand knew this time it would be different. If the country fell the Mont would too, with its doors being opened from the inside by willing hands. The great appeal the Mont had for the Triskell the last two hundred years, namely that it was an impregnable fortress, no longer applied. From today forward it would be a trap, waiting to be sprung, on the relic. He would take the Triskell to his ancestral home at Château d’ Arz tomorrow, leaving in the early hours on the pretext of a family member being ill. The Triskell would be vulnerable there too but there were a thousand places to hide things and family help on hand to assist in the task.
A random thought crossed his mind. Did the Abbott really refer to the month as June? Armand felt sure this was wrong and consulted the calendar on the desk of papers in
the corner of the room. You couldn’t run a place the size of Mont Saint-Michel without an up-to-date calendar. It turned out that Armand was right. The month had turned. It was second of July in the Year of Our Lord 1789.
Chapter 49
Ponferrada, Spain, 12 October 2014
Tara stood and stared at Robert.
‘What is it?’ she repeated, trepidation registering in her inquiring eyes.
‘We were right to come here, that is what it means,’ he replied. ‘It’s OK, Tara, sit down and just read the note.’
Slowly she took the note and opened it. The message, in scrawled handwriting was simple.
“I wait mucho tiempe for visitor to come. No speak ahora but I find you in three day. Paciencia. DTL”
Tara was silent pondering the meaning, looking up the Spanish words in her phrase book to check their meaning.
‘Ahora means “now”.
‘I thought it might,’ Robert said simply. ‘The DTL seals it, you realise that? Anyhow one of your calls clearly hit home.’
Tara just nodded her head and sat dumbly, looking at the note. But Robert saw her entire posture change, her shoulders relaxing and somehow she seemed to swell in size with the affirmation.
‘It is so odd,’ she said finally. ‘So much of this has been in my head. As though I was somehow just creating it, constructing a fantasy meaning and imposing it on all of you. At other times, like when we found the Triskell in the tomb, it is so totally real and out there.’