The scene was both a high school fantasy and the most natural thing in the world—there was nothing vulgar in her stance, nor anything contrived or pretentious. Just a woman offering herself as women had done for thousands of generations.
He tried not to stare at her pale, lithe body. Tried to ignore the pink nipples erect on her breasts. Tried to look away from the golden, triangular tuft of hair between her legs. Then he gave up, allowing his eyes to feast for a few seconds. The term ‘Sacred Feminine’ echoed in his head and somehow everything Monsignor Marcotte said about Venus worship began to make sense. She stood with her arms at her sides, making no effort to cover herself, a woman without hesitation or shame. “Well, are you coming or not?”
He had cried on her shoulder while she comforted him like a scared child, which was in many ways more intimate than being naked together. It was time. He ripped off his jeans and t-shirt, his socks and boxers and insulin pump. Taking her hand, holding it gently, he joined her on the path leading down to the moonlit pond. “Can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”
* * *
“The Monsignor is headed back to his church, I think,” Salazar reported. “He should be there in under an hour.”
“Any sign of Thorne and the girl?” Reichmann asked.
Salazar averted his eyes from the naked bodies in the pond down the slope. “No.” Salazar didn’t begrudge them time for a little romance. But hopefully they would consummate their relationship quickly and move on to the more important business of finding the treasure.
“Very well,” Reichmann said. “I will handle it from here.”
* * *
Cam and Amanda swam together in the pond for a few minutes, the water cool in the September night but not yet cold. Without any outward form of communication, they came together, each sensing the time was finally right. She wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her mouth to his. He spun her slowly in the shoulder-deep water, their bodies rotating as if in a high school slow dance, their music the sounds of the crickets and wind and frogs of the forest.
Their bodies intertwined like a pair of puzzle pieces, Cam slowly entered Amanda to complete their union. She gasped lightly before somehow pulling him even deeper inside her. Warmth enveloped him as if his entire body had descended into a heated cocoon. He dared not open his eyes, dared not release his grip, dared not do anything that might wake him from this rapturous fantasy.
He had no idea how long they moved together, slowly rotating in the water, their bodies as one. But when they finally had spent themselves, their bodies both flush from exertion and shivering from cold, the twilight had turned to darkness. He scooped Amanda in his arms and carried her like a bride to shore, her head nestled against his neck.
“Look,” she said, her lips blue but her smile radiant in the moonlight. She pointed toward the western sky. “That bright star. That’s Venus smiling down on us.”
* * *
Monsignor Marcotte checked the side view window. Nothing, surprisingly. He was one of the few links to Cam and Amanda. Which is why he had foregone his Crown Victoria and instead rented a car for his trip to Maine. But at some point the Legions of Jesus hounds would pick up his scent again.
He felt strangely at peace with his behavior. No doubt Church leaders—even the vast majority who knew nothing about the Legions of Jesus paramilitary team—would prefer Cam and Amanda fail in their quest. But he believed the Church would be the stronger if these secrets came out. Covering up a lie with more lies was not only morally wrong, it was also a policy doomed to fail. The world had changed; information was available with the click of a mouse—the days of keeping the populace ignorant by reciting masses in Latin were over. A Church built on lies and half-truths would in the end crumble beneath the weight of its own dishonesty, its good works and noble aspirations buried in the rubble.
He pulled into the driveway of the rectory, a large white Colonial structure abutting the church. After turning on some lights and feeding his tropical fish, he spent a few minutes in the rectory office checking messages and emails. But what he really wanted was to take a walk around the church’s grounds. Most of his fellow clerics chose to think and reflect while inside the church edifice. But the church, though the house of God, was still erected by man. Nature, on the other hand, was God’s creation—it was Bernard de Clairvaux, coincidentally, who first said God was more readily found in nature than in any church. A fellow priest once remarked he liked to think of nature as the clothing of God; Marcotte thought it was more akin to God’s skin. He shook his head. Only the narrow-minded would try to suppress worship of the Sacred Feminine and Mother Nature, would fight efforts to reunite her with the Godhead. Just as the male and female united in nature to create life, so too did the Godhead require both a male and female aspect, a duality.
More than ever he believed in the teachings of Christ—compassion, generosity, forgiveness. But too often in history the Church had been hijacked by men who perverted Christ’s teachings to their own ends. For better or worse, Cam and Amanda were about to force the Church to face its own history.
Marcotte flicked on the outside lights, slipped out the back door and took a couple of loping strides toward the garden. A pair of thick, black-clad men stepped out of the darkness and blocked his path, the air filled with a heavy cologne. “Monsignor Marcotte,” the older of the two said in a Spanish-accented monotone. “A moment of your time, if you please.”
Marcotte spun quickly, tried to retreat into the rectory. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, then a sharp object—a needle—penetrated his upper arm. He tried to struggle free, a sense of panic rising in his chest. “If you struggle, you risk the needle breaking off in your arm,” the voice warned as he depressed the syringe.
A wave of dizziness splashed over him, reminding him of the time in college when he did shots of tequila at a frat party. His knees buckled and the two men supported him by his elbows and pushed him back into the rectory. Suddenly he felt light, almost giddy. He giggled, his soul cursing his brain for not being able to control his body. Sodium pentothal, his brain responded in defense.
“If you are smart, you will answer our questions quickly, before we are forced to administer a second shot of the truth serum.” The man displayed a row of even, white teeth. “The second shot, unfortunately, is often lethal.”
CHAPTER 14
[Friday]
Amanda and Cam spent the night wrapped together in a single sleeping bag, waking every couple hours to make love before falling back into a satiated sleep. She had experienced a normal number of lovers over the years—boyfriends, workmates, an occasional one-night fling—but had never felt so fulfilled afterwards. Not merely physically, but emotionally. Her body tingled at his touch and her heart raced beneath the warm gaze of his deep brown eyes.
She awoke at dawn, disentangled herself from Cam, threw on some clothes and walked down to the pond to wash. Despite her lack of sleep, she skipped and hummed her way along the path, stopped to watch a squirrel chew on a nut and listen to the birds chattering in the trees above her. A team of professional assassins was attempting to find and silence them. But today, right now, this minute, life was sublime.
Returning, she found Cam awake, boiling water for breakfast. He grinned as she approached; she skipped into his arms. “Good morning,” she whispered, pulling him tight.
He kissed her head, his beard tickling her scalp. “The best.”
She held him a few more seconds before moving away to pack. As much as she would have preferred to spend the day in the woods, they needed to keep moving.
An hour later, they had eaten and packed their gear into the Subaru. They each shouldered a daypack. He pointed toward the northwest. “You up for a hike? It’s about two miles, then we climb Cowdry Hill.”
“I’d rather walk twenty miles than get back in that car. Just let me fetch a hat and some sunscreen so I don’t turn into a swamp monster again.”
They followed a path along the
Stonybrook River. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been considering what we discussed, about thinking like a medievalist. And I’m fairly certain we’re on the right track with these energy lines. But it also struck me that the Templars favored chess. What do you think?”
“I’m in favor of chests also,” he deadpanned.
She cuffed him. “I said chess, as in the game.”
He smiled. “Sorry. Must be the accent.”
“Chess was quite popular during medieval times, largely because of the thousands of Templars who learned the game in the Middle East and brought it with them back to Europe. Prior to the Templars making it so popular, chess was only played by royalty.”
“How do you think it relates to all this?”
“It may not, but we have the Knight, of course. And it always struck me that the Newport Tower resembles the rook piece on a chessboard.”
He nodded. “I had the same thought when I saw it. It may be a coincidence, but isn’t the Templar flag black squares over white?”
“Yes.” She hadn’t considered that. “As a matter of fact, the flag is modeled after the floor of the Temple of Solomon, which featured alternating black and white tiles. The Masons copied the pattern—the floors of all Masonic temples and lodges are also in a chessboard pattern.”
He pulled out his TracFone. “Another assignment for my cousin.” After asking Brandon how he was feeling, Cam summarized Amanda’s ley line and chess theories. “So we need to figure out where Prince Henry and his gang might have buried their treasures, whatever they are. I think the stone holes play into it somehow, and also the ley lines and maybe even chess pieces in some way.”
“Well, while you guys have been playing in the woods,” Brandon said as Cam held the phone so she could hear, “I’ve been reading more about the Templars and the Masons. The Masons designed a lot of our cities, especially Washington. Even my dad agrees, right Dad?”
Peter grunted an affirmation in the background.
Brandon continued. “The Masons are big into this golden ratio thing—1.62 to 1. I don’t think they invented it but they definitely used it a lot. Supposedly it repeats itself in nature over and over again, in plants and animals and stuff. The length and width of your face is in that ratio. Anyway, the Masons built D.C. using the same ratio. Maybe the Prince Henry used it also.”
“Amanda, what are the dimensions of the Newport Tower?” Cam asked.
She was one step ahead of him. “The interior diameter is just over 18 feet. The height is 28 feet today but it was approximately 30 feet before the British troops blew the top off during your Revolutionary War.” She smiled. “Sorry about that.”
Cam dropped to a knee and did some calculations in the dirt with a stick. “Well, that’s pretty damn close to 1.62 to 1.”
“Come on, Cameron, that’s just a coincidence,” Peter said.
“Maybe. But I’m getting tired of people saying everything’s just a coincidence. I don’t buy some Colonial farmer just randomly building a windmill in this ratio.”
“The arches stand just under 12 feet tall,” Amanda said. “Does that ratio work as well?”
Cam scratched more numbers before smiling. “Bingo. Arch height compared to the height above the arch is just over 1.6 to 1. Another coincidence, Peter?”
“Could be.”
Cam stood and tossed the stick away. “Whatever. Brandon, you said they used the Golden Ratio in Washington?”
“Yeah, it’s like this: Using the Washington Monument as the point of the ‘L,’ the White House is 1 unit away and the Capitol building is 1.62 units away. The three points make a right triangle.”
She leaned into the mouthpiece. “Similar to the manner in which a knight moves in a chess game?”
“Just like that,” Brandon said. “Some guy has a website and he shows all of Washington is this same Golden Ratio pattern repeated over and over again. Anyway, the Masons got this all from the Templars. All the old Templar churches and stuff were built using the same ratio. Including your Tower, I guess. These Templars were pretty sharp. Course, they had lots of free time because they swore off girls.”
“Yes, we do hold you men back. No telling what our civilization would be like if you were left to your own devices.”
Brandon laughed. “What, you have something against professional wrestling?”
“Actually, I fancy men who enjoy watching other people faking it. They make great lovers.”
“Ouch. Cam, help me here.”
Shaking his head and grinning, Cam changed the subject. “So, Forsberg thought the Newport Tower and all these other sites, along with the stone holes, were part of some mapping system. He called it mapping the New World. And we’ve got the golden ratio and chess pieces that might play into it also.”
“I’ll dig around more on this stuff. One other thing, on the Hooked X. This Forsberg guy may have been right. I’ve been reading a book about Mary Magdalene. It says, ‘X is the common symbol of the alternative, underground version of Christianity that acknowledged Mary Magdalene as the lady of Christ.’ Lady, as in bride.”
“Great find, Brandon,” Amanda said. If X was the symbol of Jesus and Mary Magdalene being married, it made perfect sense that a hook in the female portion of the X would symbolize their baby Sarah in Mary’s womb.
“Wait until you hear what else I learned. My dad was skeptical that the Vatican—or even some fringe group—would care so much about all this--”
“Yes,” Amanda interrupted, smiling. “Cameron and I had the same discussion. It does seem a bit like the elephant fearing the mouse.”
“Well, it turns out the elephant has been afraid of the mouse for a long time. Did you know the Vatican still has an Inquisition office?”
“You mean thumb screws and stuff?” Cam answered.
“None of that anymore. But their job is still to suppress what they call ‘false doctrine.’ Well, guess who was in charge of the Inquisition in the eighties and nineties?”
Amanda and Cam exchanged shrugs.
“Pope Benedict, then know as Cardinal Ratzinger,” Brandon said. “And check out what he said about the Masons: ‘The faithful who enroll in Masonic associations are in a state of grave sin and may not receive Holy Communion.’ And that’s just one example. From what I read, the Church has been trying to squash Freemasonry for centuries.”
“Grave sin? That’s pretty strong language,” Cam said. “Makes you wonder if they know the Masons have something on them. I mean, it’s hard to see what’s so threatening about a bunch of guys in funny hats organizing blood drives.”
“Exactly. Like Amanda said, why else would they be so afraid of the mouse? I think the Masons have the goods on the Church.”
“Good job, Brandon,” Amanda said. If the Masons, as successors to the Templars, were the keepers of the Sarah secrets, that could explain why Vatican fanatics were so intent on suppressing research involving a preeminent Templar-Masonic family such as the Sinclairs.
“Thanks. Hey, Cam, give the phone to Amanda.”
He did so and backed away.
“Hey. Not for nothing but my cousin can be a bit slow on this stuff. You may have to jump his bones, you know what I mean?”
That he was lying in a hospital bed without one leg softened the crassness of the comment. And she had already opened the door with her ‘faking it’ remark. “Done,” she announced. “Four times.”
He guffawed. “Good girl.”
She hung up. “He’s done some interesting research. And he seems in good spirits.”
“I think he’s focusing everything now on helping us, on getting his revenge. I’m worried about what happens after. He’s got a long life ahead of him. It won’t be easy.”
Ten minutes further into their hike the Stonybrook River hairpinned to the left. They followed a tributary that continued straight, discussing Brandon’s findings regarding the Vatican’s antipathy toward the Masons. Brandon’s research demonstrated a long-standing level of hostility on
the part of certain Church factions toward the Masons and whatever secrets might be shrouded in Masonic and Templar symbolism and ritual. More to the point, his findings were consistent with the Monsignor’s warnings that Vatican extremists were intent on suppressing research on Prince Henry and the Hooked X.
The stream slowed; they shifted their focus to their immediate surroundings. “If our theory about the encampment site is right,” Cam said, “this is the river Prince Henry took to the Gendrons’ back yard.” It narrowed so much that in some stretches they could have leapt across it. “Not exactly the Mississippi.”
“No, but 600 years ago, before all the mills and dams, it probably ran much wider and deeper. If you look closely, you can see the old river banks.” In addition to the depression the river ran through today, a wider depression was apparent in the topography of the land, perhaps tripling the width of the river.
A few hundred yards before they reached the encampment site, the tributary slowed to a trickle. He turned to his left. “We want to cut through the woods over here, avoid being seen as much as we can.”
They reached a main road, waited for the traffic to pass and crossed quickly. A long, freshly-paved drive snaked its way up a steep hill. “This is an access road for the new Westford Highway Department garage.”
She smiled. “The one they refer to as the ‘Garage Mahal’?”
“Yeah. They spent a few bucks on it, apparently.” He led her into the woods to a path that paralleled the access road. It was a Friday and a steady stream of trucks moved in and out of the garage. “We’re on Cowdry Hill. A lot of it has been quarried—they built the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown with the granite from here. But according to Brandon, there’s an area at the top that hasn’t been disturbed. It’s the highest peak around other than where the Knight was found.”
She glanced over her shoulder, down the road they just crossed. “It really is close to the encampment site and the Boat Stone.”
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 26