by Ken Fry
Shepard realised he hadn’t seen the broader picture. He didn’t know how to respond.
“C’mon, you little fart!” Bower roared, looking annoyed. “You can do better than that. If we’re going to work together, you’d better start talking and fast, because I’m not hanging around here to pussyfoot about. If you don’t loosen up, you can walk back to Vegas!” He grabbed his Beretta and slapped it hard on the desk. “Am I making myself clear?”
“What do you want to know?” Shepard felt weak and out of his depth. This wasn’t what he had expected.
“Tell me the story about the Lazarus paintings. Everything you know.”
Shepard held out his glass for a refill. He noticed the Champagne remained unopened. “I first heard the story from my researchers who had returned from a trip to Italy, France, and Spain, where they heard a story that seemed unbelievable. The story began at the actual raising of Lazarus by Christ over two thousand years ago. A painting of that event was made by a local artist of the time and was reputed to have miraculous healing powers. But over time, it was lost. Centuries later, it was rediscovered ... along with its secret. The work, it is said, somehow self-destructs when a new artist is chosen, and that process has reportedly carried on to the present day. A woman living today in Spain has experienced an amazing recovery from terminal illness after coming into contact with the latest depiction. It all seems very mysterious and I don’t quite believe it myself, but it’s a money-making opportunity if I ever saw one.”
Shepard swallowed hard. He had kept certain facts to himself. He didn’t tell him that the woman was possibly of noble birth, maybe a Marchioness, Condesa or a Vizcondesa. Shepard wanted to find her himself. Nor did he share his plans for the twelve-layered pyramid concept. Bower, he surmised, didn’t understand religious hierarchies or the need his proposed church would have for weapons to protect themselves. Yet, Bower had one thing that gave him cause to think. The idea of a postulant spending up to thirty thousand dollars to ascend to the highest level began to seem paltry.
Bower responded. “I agree with that. I dabble with painting at times. I see myself like Winston Churchill, running vast and dangerous risky projects – not unlike running my numerous casinos – but relaxing with the finer things of life. Like my book collection and attempts at art.”
As they continued their conversation, Shepard thought, John D Bower is one weird guy. A walking paradox. I wouldn’t want to cross him. This realisation made it more difficult for him to talk. After struggling for five more minutes, Bower held up his hand. “Enough. I get the picture. I couldn’t have heard a more compelling answer to my quest.”
Bower started Googling a map of Spain and in a short period of time, he had listed all the known monasteries existing there. He printed out several copies and handed three to Shepard.
“Thanks, John.” That was only the second time he had used the man’s Christian name. “My two researchers, Alphonse and Jeremiah, are due to report to me in more detail soon. I’m hoping they managed to discover more. I’ll let you know what they find.” He knew that would be a lie.
“Pastor, it’s of little use to us charging from one monastery to another. We need to pin down this woman. There must be some information we can go on?”
Shepard didn’t think there would be any harm in revealing just a little bit more. “I’m due in London soon for the World Charismatic Convention, where I hope to announce the formation of the Lazacrucian movement. From what my researchers told me, there’s a UK connection between an unknown man and woman who were somehow involved in the whole affair. Maybe if news of what I intend to do gets out, someone may lead us to them or better still, the Spanish woman.”
“Okay, Shepard, you get to the conference and make an early announcement about the new movement. No doubt, with some sort of fat fee, you’ll start recruiting members. At this moment in time, that is your business. But not for long. As soon as I start investing my money, time and effort, then it becomes very much my business.” He paused for effect. “Understood?” he bellowed, picked up the Beretta again and pointed it at a startled Shepard.
“Please, don’t point that at me. Yes, I understand.”
“You will keep me informed every step of the way. If I discover anything new, I will inform you.” He lowered the gun. “I shall prepare an agenda and make arrangements for you to meet me either in London or in Spain. I have a few ideas which may be of interest to you. Not now, though. While you are here, you are my guest, and I’ve laid out some entertainment for you. I’ll put this precious book away for now, and then let’s go to my private quarters.”
Like the rest of the establishment, Bower’s quarters were expansive, opulent, almost vulgar. Shepard, looking dazzled, was directed to a massive Jacuzzi and provided with a clean set of clothes and a bathrobe.
Shepard turned his back and undressed, slipping on the bathrobe. Once done, he faced Bower who had a large grin on his face, gesturing to the tub where three beauties, all of whom smiled sweetly as they beckoned him in, waited.
He hesitated, but Bower’s shove removed whatever modesty he had, and with one swift tug, Pastor Shepard disrobed and plunged into the warm bubbly water. The three voracious mermaids were upon him in an instant, and after only a short time, Shepard was left feeling and looking like a freshly squeezed tube of toothpaste.
Outside, Bower remained in his seat, impassive, in control, and satisfied to see that the CCTV cameras had recorded the activity and zoomed in on every fleshy move.
CHAPTER 9
Martha stared up at The White Horse and felt her affinity for it. She wondered how long it would be before she saw it again. Ulla stood next to her, checking her watch. The taxi that would take them to Reading railway station was due any time now. Ulla had insisted on accompanying Martha to Gatwick Airport to ensure her safe departure. Martha was headed to Madrid, and from there, she planned to catch a train to Toledo.
The planning had been meticulous, and Ulla told her daughter everything she knew to help her on her quest. Martha was booked at the same quiet hotel she and Brodie had stayed in when they were there – the Pedro Sanchez. They had decided not to contact the Condesa immediately. God, they weren’t even sure if she was still alive. Martha, her maturity extending far beyond her years, had suggested that a surprise visit might be better than one that was planned. Ulla was sure that if anybody had an idea where Brodie was, and his current identity, it would be the Condesa.
Martha promised to call her mother every day but couldn’t say for sure when she’ll be back. There was no shortage of funds and whatever it took, Martha was determined she would locate him. She had seen his form so many times in her dreams, she never doubted it could be anybody else. He was calling to her and she had no other choice but to heed his call.
There came the sound of a car drawing up outside. It was their taxi. Martha gave a little sob from her throat and clasped her mother’s hand. With her thoughts, she said farewell to The White Horse, knowing that it might be a while before she saw him again. She felt Ulla’s reassuring grip and for a moment ... she doubted the wisdom of her decision. She let it go and directed it into the hillside, which she loved so much.
The train to Gatwick took about an hour and forty-five minutes to arrive at the airport. The journey had been a silent one and neither felt the need to speak. The countryside was barely noticed. They both rested in a private sea of thoughts, some of which overlapped, but each of them aware of a new destiny descending upon them. If Ulla was concerned, she had refused to reveal it. Martha felt excited but also nervous. She had a programme of action to undertake when she arrived, and how that would unfold, she had no idea. She had also promised Ulla that she would visit the Cathedral and follow the route that she and Brodie had taken while searching for Francisco Cortez’s painting. But for now, a visit to Guadamur was of the highest priority.
Once off the train and inside the hustle of the airport, Martha sensed Ulla’s mixed emotions. She placed her arm hard around
her waist as they walked along the travolator. Ulla hugged her daughter back.
It didn’t take long to check the bags in and they made their way to the sitting area to await the flight announcement. In no time, it flashed on the screen and they started walking the short distance to passport control.
“You ring when you get there, okay? Call me every day and whenever you need to. You understand, Martha?”
“Of course, Ma. I’m not a million miles away and you have given me a load of addresses and contacts you trusted. I shall miss you so much!” Her last sentence came out in an emotional gush as they hugged, and their tears flowed.
The flight to Madrid was uneventful and the airplane was only half full. She had an aisle seat and the seat next to her was vacant. That gave her room to place her personal items and room to think about what’s going to happen next. A dozen scenarios went through her mind. What will she do when she found him? What will she say?
Martha was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she barely noticed when the plane landed. Once disembarked and through the regulatory procedures, she made her way to Atocha Renfe to catch one of the frequent trains into the centre of Toledo, a journey of about an hour and a quarter.
Once on board, Martha felt herself relax and start taking notice of the sights and sounds around her, so different from the gentleness of England’s rolling hills. Even where she was in Spain, The White Horse continued to invade her mind ... and she was glad it did. In this strange land, she found its presence reassuring.
Martha had decided that before commencing her search, she would unwind for a day or two, acclimatize a little to her new surroundings, and as promised, visit the Primate Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo. It was there, her mother had said, that her and Brodie’s search had begun. Martha was hoping that she would find inspiration within its sacred walls, and maybe a clue to lead her further on.
She found the Hotel Pedro Sanchez easily, in its narrow medieval street, close to the Cathedral just as Ulla had told her. Sure enough, the walled garden her mother had spoken of was still there, displaying the climbing ranks of roses whose original seeds came from pristine thirteenth century stock. She sat at a secluded table and ordered a tall, white wine spritzer. She was a year over the Spanish legal drinking age and had no qualms about alcohol. A strange emotion passed through her as she realized that in many ways, she was duplicating her parents’ original quest. Although this time, a human being was being sought, not a painting.
With care, she spread her research notes across the table. Opening her notebook, she turned the pages to where she had dried and pressed several bluebells before she left home. They were from her birthday gift. As she gazed at them, she gained a sense of security, of balance. They reassured her somehow. Next to them, she had painted a watercolour of The White Horse. As she outlined the activities for the next few days, a deep and unusual tiredness assaulted her. It propelled her to her bedroom and although it was still early evening, she found herself unable to stay awake. Sleep devoured her in an instant and her dream was perforated with bluebells and the inevitable White Horse of Uffington.
§
5 Miles South of Guadamur
Spain
There had been a time when she had thought of selling her home, which was once the site of a monastery. But now, such a move was unthinkable. Since the Lazarus affair, the Condesa Maria had become deeply attached to its old walls and structures. In particular, the small chapel which she had designed as a miniature replica of the Medici’s medieval chapel, part of the Church of Santa Croce in Florence. It was here that she had found hope and had come to associate it with Brodie Ladro. He had proved to be her salvation and for that, she surmised, he was now suffering. The legacy that was bestowed upon him is not an easy yoke to bear. He had to give up everything. Although reluctant, there was simply no way he could have refused. All his predecessors had similar fates, of that she was certain.
Lately, in the coolness of the chapel interior, Maria became more aware of whisperings in her mind. Abbot Louis had also somehow become part of it. As protector of the sacred painting, he bore an enormous responsibility, and she knew he was aware of a rippling in the atmosphere of his monastery.
A crisis was developing, and she didn’t doubt that the Lazarus painting was involved. She prayed that Brodie – Brother Baez – would come back soon. She needed to talk to him.
In her prayers, she felt the old chants; the eternal, never ending war cry clashing through her mind.
Deus Vult! Deus Vult! Beauséant!
Danger lurked. She sensed it and had no idea where it was coming from. The painting of Lazarus would soon be under threat. Would Abbot Louis be strong enough to resist an assault?
She doubted it.
She prayed harder, this time sending her thoughts to Brodie.
Brodie, or if you will, Brother Baez, through the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, we call on you once again to do your duty. Save the painting from whatever’s coming. We need you. We need your strength, your insight and perceptions.
She repeated her implorations, sending them across the universe and into an unknown desert. When she had completed her prayers, she decided that she would visit the Cathedral the next day to once again give thanks to God for her miraculous deliverance. Her annual pilgrimage to the monastery formed the first part of her obeisance, and the Cathedral would complete her intent.
§
The following morning, Martha had awoken feeling fresh and ready to start her plan of action. She couldn’t wait a day or two to acclimatize. She was ready to go. After breakfast, her first destination was the Gothic structure of the Primate Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo.
After a lazy stroll through the narrow streets, she was in front of the entrance. This is where Ulla and Brodie had started to look for the painting. She paid the fifteen Euros entrance fee and stepped inside. Martha walked around and couldn’t help but gawk at the priceless art that festooned the walls. The altar – its sheer size and opulence – dumbfounded her. Her artistic inclinations rose to the surface and she could understand why she had opted for a Fine Art Degree.
The most valuable object in the Cathedral is kept in the Chapel of the Treasure. It is known as the great Monstrance of Arfe or as La Gran Ostensoria de Toledo. Made of the finest silver and gold and bejeweled with gems, it measured over ten feet tall and crowned with a seventeenth century cross. This work of art often made an appearance in the annual feast of Corpus Christi of Toledo. It had a hexagonal base and rose on small exquisite columns, with adornments of gems and varied figurines of angels and saints, fleurons, small bells and clappers. Its architectural details – columns, arches, and vaultings – made the whole piece resemble a delicate lacework.
She marveled at it.
Right then, she understood what had compelled her parents to follow this trail so intently. For her, it was becoming a breathtaking and revelatory awakening to the power of art.
The interior was not packed, and she could hear a choir singing from one of the many chapels close by. Their angelic voices blended with the heady and thick presence of incense throughout the cathedral. The whole atmosphere moved Martha, the likes of which she had not experienced before.
There was so much to look at she couldn’t take it all in. She’d never been religious but gazing at all the holy art that surrounded her, she wondered if she could have resisted its call, had she been born in a different age.
Her father, Brodie, had submitted. But his circumstances were beyond logic and reason. Ulla had once told her that she thought her father was severely depressed and unhinged. Martha didn’t know what to think.
Before settling for a much needed rest, she had promised Ulla she would visit the Sala Capitular, The Chapterhouse where the destroyed fresco of The Raising of Lazarus by Juan de Borgoña had been a vital clue in their research.
She placed her feet on the marble floor and gazed up to view the artesonado, a lacy wooden ceiling that covered the entire area. A tremor
rippled through her, and for a reason she was unable to define, she felt strangely at home in this sacred place. The frescos were there as Ulla had said they would be. Small tears filled her eyes.
It was time for a rest.
Her legs were complaining, so she looked around for vacant seats. She found herself heading towards a side chapel with empty pews, drawn to it.
The small chapel was quiet, well-lit and unobtrusive, with a few praying people dotted around. Martha deposited herself on one of the pews and let out a long, quiet sigh. If nothing else, she was overwhelmed. The spectacle gave her a glimpse of a world she had not realised existed. As she sat there, she didn’t know what to do next. Martha had never been a praying person.
She opened her shoulder bag, removed her phone and ensured it was switched off. She took out her notebook and a small photograph of Ulla fell out next to her. She picked it up, gave it a small kiss and placed it on the vacant seat next to her. Martha began to record what she had seen and the emotions that had invaded her. She would be relating her experience with Ulla later and she didn’t want to forget anything.
At that moment, a tall, statuesque woman, dressed in black, with silvery hair combed back in severe fashion and held in place by two gold clasps, stern chiseled features and clutching a small silver crucifix, took up the vacant seat next to Martha. Making the sign of the cross, she knelt with her head bent and began her devotions. Martha could see her lips moving in silent recitation and could only wonder at how people could do so.