The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  The Cortés Trilogy

  John Paul Davis

  The Cortés Trilogy

  First Edition

  © John Paul Davis 2014-16

  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…

  Richard Doetsch, international bestselling author of The Thieves of Heaven

  John Paul Davis clearly owns the genre of historical thrillers.

  Steven Sora, author of The Lost Colony of the Templars

  A well-researched, original and fascinating work – a real page-turner

  Graham Phillips, international bestselling non-fiction author

  Books by John Paul Davis

  Fiction

  The Templar Agenda

  The Larmenius Inheritance

  The Plantagenet Vendetta

  The Cromwell Deception

  The Bordeaux Connection

  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.johnpauldavisauthor.com

  And

  www.theunknowntemplar.com

  Contents

  Praise for The Templar Agenda

  Books by John Paul Davis

  Introduction to the Trilogy Edition

  The Cortés Enigma

  The Cortés Revenge

  The Cortés Revelation

  The Facts Behind My Fiction

  Introduction to the Trilogy Edition

  There are moments in a writer’s life that almost defy explanation. An idea is planted, usually by accident, and then, after several hours or days of it going round and round in the writer’s mind, it begins to take a firm hold. Like a snowball, what starts as something small gradually becomes bigger and bigger before, without warning, it takes on a life of its own. Scenes flash across the mind, locations from the past merge with those of the present, even fictitious islands emerge above the waves. Suddenly, the visions give birth to a host of other things, including fully fleshed humans, each with their own voices and agendas. Worse still, they all begin speaking at once and in loud, determined voices. As these new things take permanent root, the writer is left with two choices. Try to ignore them as they continue to grow or grow with them.

  When the characters are persistent and the author is naturally prone to mischief, that usually spells trouble!

  In my own writing career, ideas and plots have always come to me suddenly. While touring the Vatican in 2006, I was left in utter hysterics when a Swiss Guard jumped impeccably to salute when my uncle passed him by in a red baseball cap, the guard randomly mistaking him for a cardinal. Such incidents during my brief time there fuelled my imagination in ways that only places like the Vatican can; from the seemingly chance encounters that occurred that week, the plot for The Templar Agenda was born.

  Similar things happened one day in London when browsing its famous portrait gallery and a casual glance at a portrait’s description detailed a previously hidden past. Only a few hours later, the plot for The Cromwell Deception had filled ten A4 pages of notepaper.

  Even the slightest coincidence can bring about the greatest change.

  The tale you are about to read is in many ways even more original. It came from no one place; what inspired it I can no longer fully remember. Only that it happened. In many ways, it is unlike any story I have so far written; perhaps ever will so again. It was a story that took on a world of its own, and in doing so created several. Writing it has been an experience. And like all experiences, with it came great learning.

  Unlike any of my previous releases, this book is a complete trilogy. Until now, only the first part has been available in eBook or print. When I wrote The Cortés Enigma, it was intended as a standalone, the original version written to be included in a limited time box set created by my good friend and fellow author David Leadbeater. By the time I had finished the ending, however, I realised there was still a lot more to come. The ideas were still snowballing, only thicker and faster. Enigma was only destined to be part of the story – a prequel if anything. When the box set ended, it became my intention to release The Cortés Enigma and allow its successor to develop in its own good time. That soon became impossible. For now a third story had made itself known. A decisive story. So completed the trilogy. A beginning, a middle and an end . . .

  The trilogy contains many characters, and many themes, with one running consistently throughout: Cortés! Like many of history’s controversial characters, he has been loved and loathed, admired and despised, respected and slighted, studied and misunderstood, cherished and scorned, overhyped and undervalued and, even in the modern day, never fails to divide opinion among his commentators. Even in my own enquiries, my opinion of the man has changed frequently. This trilogy is not so much about the man as it is about the aura that surrounds him, especially the mysteries regarding his achievements and legacy. The stories are neither historical biographies nor historical novels. Though based on his true-to-life character, they are not intended to be a substitute for biographies; in certain cases, I have made up whole islands and cities – as usual I have devoted the latter pages of the book to confirm which are real and which are not. Again, exactly what inspired these creations I can no longer explain.

  Only that I probably have him to thank!

  After much thought, I have decided to release the second and third stories as one single volume that includes a revised version of The Cortés Enigma as opposed to three separate books. Having now completed the series, it is clear to me each part is intrinsic to the others.

  Unlike my other novels, these books must be read in the correct order; to get full value from the read I also recommend they be read in relatively quick succession. For those of you who have already read The Cortés Enigma, it is worth pointing out any changes made in this version have been subtle and solely for the purposes of clarity and continuity. Reading this updated version is something I personally recommend, but it is optional. For those of you who read the Hot Box version, the changes are greater, and should be reread from the start. For those of you with strong memories, I have included the option to start from the beginning of any of the three. Both Revenge and Revelation are brand-new releases, and available only in this trilogy.

  Thank you as always for your incredible support and interest in my work. I hope you enjoy the story.

  The Cortés Enigma

  John Paul Davis

  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 did not consist of gol
d alone. Nor was it carried in chests.

  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 rocky walls: yellow, green, blue, red . . .

  It was virtually impossible to judge the total value.

  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 the first part 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 against a fiery backdrop. At sunrise, it appeared again, this time much closer to the mainland.

  Writing in his logbook, 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 quickness 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 anything so fast on the water.

  It didn’t take the galleon long to change its course. The Spanish 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 visible come late evening. As the sun began to disappear beyond the distant horizon, the English attempted to board her; an hour later, they were in danger of losing her. A barrage of thundering crashes echoed through the evening air. Wood smashed, cannonballs exploded, water splashed up to heights of over twenty metres, drenching all within a radius of a tenth of a mile. 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 the heart of Spain. The gold included coins and nuggets, rare in appearance. Raleigh had seen the same thing only once before.

  Brought back from Central America.

  It was written in the log that the ship disappeared from sight at 6:57 p.m.

  That 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 something similar 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 south-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 across the sea 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 nearest island. 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 tall wooden jetty.

  The captain breathed out, relieved, as he jumped on to 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 capsize and the price of failure could be catastrophic.

  The distinguished passenger waited until the boat stopped rocking before accepting the captain’s hand as he disembarked and 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 covered with flowers. Even in the winter the island was not unattractive, but he sensed a feeling of isolation and simplicity. His initial impression matched the reports. The nearby hamlet he could see about half a kilometre 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, 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, plagued by hints of grey, that matched his smartly combed moustache.

  The stranger smiled at the gravedigger as he approached, friendly sincerity emphasised by a soft glint 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 expression 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 shovel head 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 fifty 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 in hearing of the chimes.”