The Cortés Enigma
John Paul Davis
The Cortés Enigma
Second Edition
© John Paul Davis 2014
The right of John Paul Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The following tale is a work of fiction. All names, people, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or else used fictitiously. Any similarity to people, living or deceased, events, organisations or locales not otherwise acknowledged is coincidence.
This book or eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Praise for The Templar Agenda
Can’t wait for the new one…
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John Paul Davis clearly owns the genre of historical thrillers.
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A well-researched, original and fascinating work – a real page-turner
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Books by John Paul Davis
Fiction
The Templar Agenda
The Larmenius Inheritance
The Plantagenet Vendetta
The Cromwell Deception
Non-Fiction
Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar (Peter Owen Publishers)
Pity For The Guy – a Biography of Guy Fawkes (Peter Owen Publishers)
The Gothic King – a Biography of Henry III (Peter Owen Publishers)
For more information please visit www.theunknowntemplar.com
A blank wall is a fool’s writing paper
Hernán Cortés
Prologue
Mexico, 1581
The treasure was found in a cave on the outskirts of the city, exactly where the map said it would be. Unlike most hoards, the bounty was not gold alone. Nor was it carried in chests.
It was virtually impossible to judge the total value.
The entire cave was glowing. Even in the darkest recesses, there was rarely an absence of light. It was like looking at a rainbow; a plethora of colours shone against the rock: yellow, green, blue, red…
The long-haired brunette had never seen such beauty; even back in Spain, such things were unheard of. Her mother had once told her of the legends of the Aztecs and their capital city. A glimpse of paradise she had been told: heaven floating on a perfect lake. Though the city had fallen long ago, the evidence of its past was all around her. A multitude of stones filled every barrel or box: emeralds, sapphires, rubies, cut and uncut.
She no longer doubted the legends.
The expedition had set out six months earlier, tasked with one single but epic purpose. The orders had been specific. Once the lost hoard had been rediscovered, the crew would return within six months, enough time for at least a quarter of the cargo to be salvaged. On their arrival in Valladolid, the bounty would be relinquished to the Crown, and the location of the rest divulged.
The Santa Estella was still a long way from Spain when it was seen through the telescope of Sir Walter Raleigh. It appeared in the west as the sun was setting, a distant silhouette like a fire on the water. Twelve hours later it appeared again, this time much closer to the mainland and when the sun was in the opposite side of the sky.
Writing in his log, Raleigh recorded every feature. The ship was multi-decked, sturdy, and surprisingly stable in the water, even when the wind picked up. The design was unlike the ships he was used to. The forecastle was lower, and the hull elongated. Without question, this was no ordinary Spanish carrack: it was thinner, longer, slicker, more modern.
Even more surprising was its speed. A snout-like head jutted out above the bow, which glided through the water, leaving clear ripples in its path. The vessel’s speed came from the sails, triangular, white and strong, each mounted at an angle against four masts. Even in his writings, Raleigh made no effort to hide his surprise and admiration.
Never had he witnessed such speed on the water.
It didn’t take the galleon long to change its course. The captain quickly recognised the Englishman’s convoy and took immediate action. There were twelve ships in the convoy, each one waiting, blocking the Bay of Biscay.
The Santa Estella was still on the water in the late evening. As the sun began to disappear, the English attempted to board her; an hour later, they had lost all hope of catching her. A barrage of thundering crashes echoed through the evening air. Wood smashed, cannonballs exploded, water splashed up to heights of over fifty metres, drenching all within a tenth of a mile radius. As night fell, Raleigh saw flames, bright and crisp. Wood burned, people screamed, male and female, but the onslaught was not enough to sink her.
Through the thick, pungent smoke and the debris, Raleigh noted something shining in the water, a radiant glow like that of a valley of riches. The wood they salvaged was mainly oak, the kind that typically grew in Spain; the gold was both cut and uncut, its appearance rare. Raleigh had seen the same thing only once before.
In South America.
It was written in the log that the ship disappeared from sight at 6:57pm. It was the last time it was ever seen.
Who was on board or where they came from remained a mystery. The design of the ship, although undeniably Spanish, was supremely futuristic, almost supernatural. Over seven years would pass before the design was seen again, by which time the story of the Santa Estella had already been largely forgotten. No record of the vessel docking was ever found, either in Spain or elsewhere in Europe. Rumour spoke of a similar vessel being seen in Ireland, others as far away as Scotland or Scandinavia.
The ship itself was never found.
In time, tales of the mysterious vessel became woven into maritime legend. Sailors in the North Atlantic spoke of a ghostly ship gliding silently across the sea on foggy nights, its sails flying high and without movement, its hull cutting through the water without a ripple.
Some mistook it for the Flying Dutchman.
Few knew the real truth.
On a small group of islands near the western tip of England, a different legend arose and quickly became a frequent subject of conversation over suppers around the campfire.
As for Raleigh, what had started as an ordinary day at sea became a topic of intense obsession. The sight of gold on the water haunted him, driving him back to the New World in search of legendary cities of gold. His obsession led to fanaticism. Fanaticism to failure.
Failure to execution.
To his dying day, he never forgot the sight of the Santa Estella and the gold on the water.
Nor forgot to wonder what being from the depths of hell captained her.
Isles of Scilly, 1904
The small rowing boat glided across the calm sea, approaching the small wooden pier. As it reached shallow water, the captain rose to his feet and threw a long length of rope to the sole observer, who pulled them to the nearest jetty.
The captain breathed out, relieved, as he jumped onto dry land. Although the fog had lifted, allowing him an unrestricted view of the landing area, the journey from St Mary’s had not been straightforward. The islands were always difficult in the winter. Frost enveloped every square inch of them, covering the windows of nearby cottages and coating the greenery in a sparkly varnish. Visually, it was a picture, but for the seafarer, often problematic.
One overturn and th
e price of failure could be catastrophic.
The distinguished passenger waited until the boat stopped rocking before accepting the captain’s hand as he disembarked. For the first time he took in the sights. The island was smaller than the one he had just visited, a picturesque wilderness. According to the people he had spoken to on St Mary’s, come springtime the island was an ornithologist’s paradise: the home of many birds, golden orioles to puffins, and densely populated with flowers of every description. Even in the winter the island was not unattractive, but he sensed a feeling of isolation and simplicity. The initial impression matched the reports. The small nearby hamlet that he could see about half a mile away inland was the only civilisation on the island.
He looked at the two men standing on the jetty. “Which way to St. Lide’s?”
The captain was busy securing the boat. “You’re looking at it.”
The passenger was unimpressed. “I meant the church.”
The captain looked up and pointed to a large hill, the pinnacle of the island. “You’re looking at it.”
An old gravedigger was standing in the corner of the churchyard, tending to one of the graves. He hummed to himself in a low-pitched mumble as he banged his shovel against the frozen ground, trying to remove the soil.
To his right he heard the sound of the rusty lichgate opening and closing. A man had entered the graveyard and was walking slowly along the pathway. Looking up, he watched the man approach, silently trying to figure out which of his neighbours would be making such a journey on a cold February afternoon. The vicar maybe? No, this person was far too tall. His wife, perhaps? No, this person was far too masculine.
One of his relatives, he reasoned.
Whoever it was, they were clearly prepared for the cold. The man was dressed predominantly in black, his body wrapped in three or four layers of clothing, the outer of which was a thick dark overcoat. A round bowler hat covered much of his thin black hair that matched his smartly combed moustache.
The stranger smiled softly at the gravedigger as he approached, friendly sincerity emphasised by a brightness in his light blue eyes that were slightly obscured by classical round spectacles. Still, the gravedigger didn’t recognise him, nor did he recognise the type of clothing. He looked like a mainlander, a Londoner, he reasoned. Despite the coat, the man was cold and clearly not used to the conditions. The stranger stopped by the side of the grave, his cold face looking down, a sombre smile befitting the occasion.
The gravedigger stopped digging. “If you be looking to pay your respects, the funeral will not be till the morning. Reverend does not do burials on a Sunday.”
“I see,” the man said, doing his best not to shiver. “Did you know them well?”
“That was old Mrs Parkerson. I knew her well.”
“I’m so sorry,” the man said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “I say, it really is a most frightful day.”
The gravedigger threw another shovelful of soil to the side of the hole, brushed away some dirt from the shovelhead and adjusted his hat with his free hand. “Worse is yet to come.”
“It must be awfully difficult at this time of year. Back home, my brother is a vicar. His gravedigger often has the same problem.”
The local nodded, undecided whether or not he was interested in pursuing the conversation. Being one of less than forty residents on the island, he decided the promise of interaction with a stranger could make a welcome change.
“And tell me, sir, where exactly is home? If you’ll pardon my asking.”
“London,” the visitor said, his Whitehall accent obvious for the first time. “I live in sight of Big Ben. Not to mention the chimes.”
“In sight of Big Ben,” he mumbled, jabbing his shovel at a large block of ice that had attached itself to the nearby dirt. “Now there’s a sight I never did see. You be a long way from home, sir.”
“I assure you, I’ve been a lot further.” The visitor smiled kindly, looking away briefly toward the church. “Is this the only church on the island?”
“That it is, sir. Unless you be counting the chapel. That be Methodist, you understand?”
“Then I take it this must be St Lide’s?”
“Aye, sir. If you be looking to pay your respects, his holy body is buried inside. You’ll be finding it at the back of the Lady Chapel.”
“I take it you know the church well?” He asked, guessing from the man’s distinctly Cornish accent, his general appearance – bearded, early fifties, baldness evident despite the presence of a hat – that the answer would almost certainly be yes.
“As well as any other,” the gravedigger replied.
“Ah, excellent. In that case, I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for one of my long-lost relatives, an ancestor, in fact. I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across anybody in this cemetery by the name of Wilcox?”
The gravedigger considered the question and shook his head. “No, sir. In all my years on St Lide’s, I’ve never heard mention of no Wilcox. Matter of fact, I don’t recall anyone of that name ever living on the island.”
“Actually, he was Irish – a sailor. He died in the 1700s. The naval disaster.”
“Ah, the disaster. 22 October 1707. Worst in naval history. Four ships capsized that night, over a thousand dead.” He shook his head and looked the Londoner in the eye. “Folks in these parts say one of Admiral Shovell’s men tried to warn him of impending disaster. Instead of listening, the admiral had him hanged for inciting disorder. It don’t always pay to tell the truth.”
The visitor frowned. “You clearly know your local history.”
“If finding your ancestor is what you came here to do, I suggest you head on inside and speak with the vicar. If anyone knows Wilcox, chances are it’ll be Reverend Williams.”
The visitor reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a fine, solid gold Victorian pocket watch attached to his inner garments by a strong chain. “It’s 13:02. Is he usually in church at this time?”
“Service is over already. More likely he’ll be in the rectory.” The gravedigger pointed to a large house on the other side of the pathway, its grand exterior partially hidden by a long line of old oak trees. Through the trees the visitor could see that it was a two-storey, run-down building, its once fine Georgian façade badly defaced through years of neglect and exposure to adverse weather.
He placed his right hand deep into his thick woolly pocket and removed a sixpence. “Here’s something for your wife and family.”
The gravedigger caught the coin. “A thousand thanks.” He nodded, tipped his hat and returned to digging the grave.
The Church of St Lide’s was an imposing building, not quite quaint but not ruined either. Its white stone exterior had seen better days, while repairs to the chancel and the bell tower had remained ongoing for the past decade. He could tell from the façade that the architecture had been initially Romanesque, with later additions and repairs carried out over the last century.
The church was open. The large wooden door creaked before closing under the power of its own weight, stopping when the bolt hit the latch.
The visitor looked around. Immaculate white walls surrounded five stained-glass windows on either side, each one depicting scenes from either the Bible or moments from the island’s past. He recognised stories such as Moses and the Ten Commandments and the Sermon on the Mount, their characters well defined and alive with colour. A beautiful Victorian font was located at the rear left of the main aisle, surrounded by stacks of extra chairs and hymnals in a bookcase.
The interior was spacious and airy, the whiteness of the walls reflecting the sunlight as it entered through the stained-glass windows on the west side. There were plaques on the walls, mainly recent, put up in remembrance of locals whose service to the community had been worthy of memory. Either side of the main aisle, ten wooden pews were spaced at regular intervals, while at the front of the church, an ornate chamfered archway led somewhere off the altar.
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