She showed him the final page of the manuscript. “According to legend, Cortés buried his treasure in a hidden monastery below the castle. Keep a close eye out. The manuscript says the entrance is somewhere on the mountain.”
41
10 July 1887
The journey into the Extremaduran countryside, in truth, was unlike any I had so far made during my lifetime. Having not had the pleasure of venturing to this particular part of the world since I was still in my early twenties, my recent exploits having been restricted to the mountainous regions of Scotland, whose climate was much chillier than my current setting and the terrain particularly unforgiving, I must confess to finding myself slightly apprehensive as I prepared to take these first steps into the unknown. The sunny route to our eventual destination, the like of which I am also still to revisit since my teenage years, I awaited with renewed vigour. Remembering my past experiences of the African continent, I recalled there was something about the way the sun set over the distant horizon that made the world appear different, as though I had been blessed with a glimpse of paradise. How eagerly I await a repeat of such beauty.
Having made our course south on completing our passage to Bilbao, the journey has brought us into the heart of the country south of Valladolid and among the thick grasslands, the like of which I was still to experience until today. At this time, I thought it wise to make extensive notes of the location; looking out on such a unique setting, its beauty in its own way not outrivaled by that which I once saw in the heart of deepest Africa, I couldn’t help but gaze with wonder at what possible mysteries lay undiscovered in the land beyond. In my short time here I have already heard many great things, said both by local gentlemen and others with whom I am already familiar and whose opinion I hold with the utmost respect, regarding the intimate history of these locations, much of which I believe to be something of a mystery to the common man. The land once famed as being the home of the great conquistadors, the stories of which I hold most dear, I also believe to be the home of a great many other things that may or may not date from that same time . . .
Ben rubbed his fingers across his eyebrows and smiled wryly at the passage he had just read. He remembered from his conversation with Cortés at the Gibbous Moon that TF’s diary had made a specific reference to an earlier journal written several years before his visits to the Isles of Scilly.
Ben knew it referred to the same diary he had recently removed from his grandmother’s attic.
Recently recovered from Valeria.
Both diaries had obviously been written by the same person. In recent days Ben had got used to the soothing Victorian English adventurer writing style that seemed to fit TF’s persona like a glove. The style amused him. Even over a period of twenty years, TF’s personality never seemed to change, his hard eye for study never wavering. The fact that he was even reading it thrilled him. Despite the pain in his leg, recent stresses causing some of the stitching to loosen, he had managed to become reacquainted with the lost heirlooms. All of the books had been retrieved.
Nana would never even need to know they were gone!
The morning had also been useful for other reasons. Despite his frustrations in allowing Valeria to get away, the microchip Eduardo had managed to secrete inside her bag was clearly working, along with the original one he had placed on the car the night before. Ben realised immediately on seeing the flashing blue dots tracing their path on the screen that Eduardo’s efforts had given them round-the-clock surveillance of her every movement, confirming her return to the hotel and later departure. Ben could just picture the conversation on Valeria’s return. The American is alive. So is the dog.
Our cover is blown.
He guessed the conversation would take place in Spanish; he knew for a fact, Chris didn’t speak the language.
He watched with grim amusement as both blue dots moved quickly along several main roads. Both Valeria and the car were back on the road, heading south-east.
Back to Extremadura.
*
The helicopter’s motors buzzed in Ben’s ears as they journeyed over the open countryside. After two days travelling by helicopter, his body was beginning to adjust to the quick bursts of speed at high altitude.
He sat in the front, alongside Juan, watching the isolated scenery below him through the windows. Eduardo sat beside Danny in the second row, keeping an eye on the exasperated Maria.
“Where are they now?” Ben asked Eduardo, now slightly more acquainted with Juan’s nephew. He had learned during the last hour that the lad had just finished his fresher year at the University of Salamanca, a musician sidetracked by a law degree, the opposite of what Juan had told him hours earlier. Ben liked him; he smiled, joked.
Ben sensed he was the black sheep of the family.
“They seem to have stopped somewhere in the mountains,” Eduardo replied, concerned that the tablet’s battery would soon be dying. “It’s close to her home village.”
Seated at the controls, Cortés nodded. “They are following the directions of the stolen idols precisely. There is no doubting their destination.”
“Care to fill me in?”
Cortés gazed at Ben to his left. “By now you should know better than to entertain outsiders with careless talk.”
Ben guessed he was talking about Maria. “You think she’s going somewhere?”
“The second item the slimy eel stole from me this morning would once have been of great use to her. Sadly for her, its purpose has passed.”
Ben monitored his expression. Not for the first time he gave little away. “What was it, another stone?”
“Amongst other things. You were quite right when you said the manuscript was incomplete.”
“You kept the second part?”
“I consider it really more of an appendix. Either way, the content is most informative.”
“So where are we headed?”
“A small hamlet in the Sierra de las Villuercas. Once home of a mighty people.”
“Relatives of yours?”
Juan shook his head. “No. But they were the first to learn of its secrets.”
*
It was warm up on the hill. The ancient stones radiated a fierce heat as they absorbed the sunlight as it passed through the former windows.
The ground was hard underfoot; it was clear from the colour of the earth the area had seen little rain in recent times. Large piles of firewood had been left by one of the walls, the only sign of human interaction. Excluding the main tower, the remaining ruined stonework resembled a weathered Neolithic monument rather than anything more civilised. The grass was dry but wild.
It was unclear from its appearance whether it was ever maintained.
Valeria knew she had followed the clues perfectly. When viewed together, the strange liquid centres of the four stones formed the perfect image of a castle, its strong walls dominating the hill line. The map concentrated specifically on the Sierra de las Villuercas, from the Río Almonte to the north to the village of Solana to the south. The hamlet was marked with an X, its castle the prominent point. The entrance to the hidden monastery had existed within what had once been the west tower.
The question was, where had the tower’s foundations once been?
*
Cortés was familiar with the contents of the safe deposit box. Though he had seen it only twice with his own eyes, he was satisfied he remembered everything correctly.
He had been too young to understand its true significance the first time. The bank had been like something from an old film; it reminded him of the scene in Mary Poppins when the children were pestered to open up an account.
His father had taken him to Valladolid to see the sights of the former Spanish capital; he could still smell the dense mahogany that dominated the foyer and the metallic cases that lined the walls of the vault like a glorified filing cabinet.
Back then, the manuscript had failed to captivate him. The stone, on the other hand, was unlike anything
he had ever witnessed; he still recalled the way its light penetrated the small space like a hundred light bulbs burning in unison.
Even as an adult, the feeling was still powerful.
The second visit had been of his own making. His father’s death had been untimely, the cause, in the eyes of the wider world, a mystery. The heirlooms always passed to the next of kin; like the inheriting of a great kingdom, it was a tradition that would never be broken. With his older brother no longer with him, he was the sole inheritor.
The heir of many things, big and small.
The stone was one of five, four of which were of identical size and importance. Legend associated great things when the four were brought together.
He knew the truth was less straightforward.
The treasure had been hidden where nobody was likely to find it; it had been buried by people loyal to its discoverer, people who had been trusted. It was ironic, he had once thought, standing at the heart of the hill overlooking the breathtaking scenery.
In its abandonment, the castle had achieved its greatest legacy.
*
“They were called the Order of the Virgin,” Cortés said as he directed the helicopter over the nearby hill. With each passing second, he knew the hamlet was getting nearer.
“Never heard of them,” Ben replied.
“That does not particularly surprise me.”
Ben sensed a new rebuke was imminent. “What were they, a military order?”
“People forget that it wasn’t just promises of great treasures and colonisation that persuaded the King of Spain to venture to the New World. Before the adventurers departed, it was agreed that in order to pacify elements of dissent and to avoid war, the privileges of the natives would be respected. Hernán Cortés was appalled on his arrival to see the people of that country execute prisoners in front of them and sprinkle food with their blood. They claimed it was their custom, a sign of respect. Cortés, however, stood his ground. Though it may have been their custom, it had not been his.”
“What’s that got to do with this order?”
“The religions of the New World had never been popular among its masses; the people simply believed what they had been brought up to believe. If men must die to appease the gods, then so be it. The wisdom of the emperor was never questioned. One of the first things my ancestor did on setting up quarters in Tenochtitlán was establish a church to the Virgin Mary. When his grip over the city was sufficiently tight, the people were offered the chance to escape the savagery of the old ways. For this, he was blessed with the assistance of many priests.”
“You mean Jesuits?”
Cortés nodded. “The war against the Moors was over. It was a dark period of Spanish history that belongs solely in the past. Hernán Cortés, in his own way, was the new hero among the religious orders. The man who brought Christianity to the New World.”
“Something of an overstatement, don’t you think?”
“Consult your history books; the proof is there for all to see.”
Ben decided to let the subject slide. “So who were they?”
“The castle you are about to see began with the Muslims. In time it was updated and became the property of other orders. By the time of the conquests, the castle had lost its purpose. The Order of the Virgin was established by men who had returned home safely, a mark of gratitude for their safe passage. The new order combined the brotherhood of the monastery with the fighting expertise of the Templars or the Knights of Calatrava. Only instead of fighting a war, they existed merely to guard what they brought with them.”
Ben quietly digested what he heard. Though he considered himself an expert on Hernán Cortés, he had never heard of the Order of the Virgin.
“What happened to them?”
“Even at its height, the order never consisted of more than twenty men. When the individuals died, they were buried with honours and their families well looked after. Cortés’s intention was never for the wealth of the New World to be enjoyed by one individual, but instead exist only for the glory of those who had brought it home. It was, you might say, a blessing and a curse.”
“Coins, coins, everywhere, but not a dime to spend.” Ben shook his head. “If what you’re saying is true, it sounds like most of these guys drew the short straw. Either that or they were deluding themselves.”
Juan threw him a stern stare. “Why do you say such things?”
“Well, with all due respect, your countrymen who accompanied your ancestor to the New World did so with only one aim in mind. Self-fulfilment.”
“Would you not consider self-fulfilment an honourable aim?”
“Maybe, but it all counts for nothing if you spend your whole life fighting for something you never really own. In a way, you’re even worse than the Templars. Even though they were poor individually, at least they fought for a cause. It was only when they lost that cause they went into decline.”
“Perhaps this is where you miss the point.”
“How exactly?”
“The Order of the Virgin was formed by those who served. Those who did not want to join had the right to return home. A common bond of friendship and love united them. It is strange, no, that not one of them decided to return home?”
Ben bit his lip, knowing that whatever he said, Juan would have an answer lined up. “So where the hell are we going?”
*
The scenery had changed since the time of the stones’ creation. Though the setting was largely recognisable, its appearance in the liquid crystal of the four stones displayed a once mighty castle whose walls were still standing.
In front of her, Valeria saw nothing but ruins.
The manuscript placed the tower somewhere close to a ridge that overlooked the Saint Lucia gorge that cut the greenery to the east. The ground underfoot was overgrown, the nearby rocks covered by a light dust. Logic told her the foundation stones, if they still existed, would be discovered at least a few inches beneath the earth.
The last thing she wanted to do was begin an excavation.
The final pages of the manuscript had included a succinct history of the area. The original castle had been established when Nafza Berber tribes from North Africa consolidated their rule over the region. When the Christian resurgence drove the Moors south, the castle passed first to the Knights of Trujillo and later the Order of Calatrava. The order then sold it to Alfonso X of Castile in the mid-1200s, who sold it on again to the Council of Trujillo on the condition the walls would be pulled down, the materials reused, in exchange that patronage of the churches would continue.
The later text was more surprising. Despite the castle’s partial demolition, ownership was later taken on by a different order, the Order of the Virgin.
Valeria had never heard of them before.
*
Chris surveyed the sole surviving tower carefully from the inside before doing the same from the outside. The tower aside, the castle contained little of relevance, its broken walls now little more than freestanding pillars in the wind.
Had the climate been less hospitable, he knew they would probably have fallen centuries ago.
He looked to the west and followed the pathway until he reached bare rock. Seeing nothing that obviously matched what Valeria had recently described, he ventured west out on to the rocks, taking extra care to ensure his footing remained stable.
He looked out at the distant landscape, squinting at the appealing sight of rolling greenery and pastureland beyond the orange- and red-topped buildings cut into the hillside. The drop below him was steep, which made it difficult to concentrate. The view made him feel nauseous; he feared an attack of vertigo was imminent.
He blinked and took deep breaths until the feeling went away.
He turned to his right, his eyes focusing on the nearby features. The rocks were jagged, but easy to grip; again, he sensed there had been no rain recently. The sensation was unique, like moving through a granite jungle.
Whoever had designe
d the castle had clearly picked the perfect spot to avoid siege.
He stopped on reaching two particularly large rocks, both of which were surprisingly flat. He noticed a large gap in between them, heading into the hillside.
Steadying himself, he looked down.
*
“Hey, I think I’ve found something.”
Valeria felt her heart soar on hearing those words. She heard Chris’s voice come from somewhere north-west of the main tower; for a moment she was unsure exactly where. Chris had disappeared among the bare rocks; she found him kneeling down close to a ledge, looking down between two peculiarly large rocks, clearly intrigued.
She realised she had been looking in the wrong area. The map was contemporary to the period, drawn in the style Meridians of the era had been accustomed to. Her automatic assumption was that north would be pointing upwards and everything else would follow accordingly. As she looked out across the landscape, the roof of the church dead west, she realised her mistake. What she had assumed to be north was east, meaning it was not the west tower she needed to find.
But the north tower.
She hurried across the open ground towards Chris, stopping several metres away. She found him holding on tightly to the jagged ends of the largest rocks.
“Look. Down there.” He saw her approach and pointed to a spot a few metres below them, cut into the steep cliff face. “It looks like the entrance of a cave or something.”
Valeria proceeded cautiously, wary that one wrong step could prove fatal. Chris was standing on the far side of the second rock, its end jutting out above the earth like a small turret. She tiptoed her way around the first, stopped and looked down. It seemed familiar, like a distant memory returned. She had seen something similar as a child, perhaps many times. Chris was right, she realised.
It appeared to be an entrance to what might once have been a dungeon or a cellar.
The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation Page 57