Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  “Not bad. That stuff just took a while to flush through my system. Now I just feel like I have a monster hangover. They’ve got me up in this private suite, at the top of the hospital. Great views of the river. It’s like glass, makes me want to ski.”

  “You know what? By next summer I have no doubt you’ll be out there slaloming.” Cam summarized the alien ruse and their escape. “Hopefully it’ll buy us a couple of days.” He also recounted Salazar’s collision with an oak club. “I got him pretty good. He’s gonna feel it for a while.”

  “Thanks.” He chuckled. “Good thing he was running straight ahead. You could never hit a curve.”

  “Tell me about it. My whole life is a curve right now.”

  “Well, I’ve got something interesting.” Cam motioned for Amanda to lean in. “I was looking for some connection between the Newport Tower and the Sacred Feminine stuff, like you suggested. Do you know what the name Mary Magdalene means?”

  “I believe it means Mary of Magdal, a town near the Sea of Galilee where she lived,” Amanda said.

  “True but there’s more to it than that. The word magdal comes from the Hebrew word migdal, meaning tower. So Mary Magdalene means ‘Mary of the Tower.’”

  Their eyes met and widened. “Blimey,” she breathed. “The Tower could have been erected as a shrine to Mary Magdalene. That’s quite an amazing discovery, Brandon.”

  “I thought you guys might like that.”

  Building the Tower as a shrine to Mary Magdalene was totally consistent with the message embedded in the Hooked X runes. And also consistent with the Sacred Feminine worship and the use of the Tower as a prime meridian in mapping the New World. “Think of it this way,” Cam said. “We’ve got artifacts and stone holes lining up at both magnetic north and celestial north. And both lines converge at the Tower. The symbolism is perfect. Celestial north looks to the heavens. Magnetic north is earth-based. The Tower is the spot where celestial north and magnetic north meet and join together, the spiritual convergence of heaven and earth. Which makes the Tower an ideal shrine to Mary Magdalene.” He smiled, the allegory almost too perfect. “She, as the wife of Jesus and mother of his line, is herself the living nexus of the heavenly and the earthly.”

  They remained silent for a few seconds, Amanda’s eyes still wide as she studied Cam. Brandon broke the silence. “That’s some pretty deep shit, Cam. And it doesn’t even smell. I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks.” The puzzle pieces were continuing to fall into place, the picture continuing to become clearer. But there were still unanswered questions. “Can you check on something for us?” He described for Brandon the relationship between Judge Sewall and Joseph Frazon, plus Sewall’s eerie connection to the Bourne Stone and his travels to Stonehenge and Noman’s Land. “Can you see if this guy Frazon fits in here at all? I mean, why did they send him all the way from Salem to Newport to be buried? And why was Judge Sewall involved at all?”

  “I have an idea on the Sewall connection but I’m not sure it fits perfectly,” Brandon said. “I just started looking through this book that talks about how a lot of the Pilgrim families descended from the Templars, how they were trying to bring the Templar ideals to America. I know the Pilgrims and the Puritans up in Salem were different groups but there might be a connection.”

  “You may be right. We know Sewall was an avid reader and pretty open-minded—he even issued a public apology after the witch trials. And we know he was traveling a lot down to the Cape Cod area, near where the Pilgrims were. Maybe he got clued in to the whole Sacred Feminine stuff by his Pilgrim friends.” The theory, though hard to prove, was consistent with both Sewall’s involvement with the Bourne Stone and Noman’s Land and his interest in forming a New Jerusalem. “Can you keep looking?”

  “Okay, chief. But it sounds to me like you love birds should get out of the sack and get your butts down to Newport.”

  Laughing, Cam hung up and looked up to see Amanda motioning excitedly. “Wait, I just recalled something. When I first viewed the Tyngsboro Map Stone, I did some research on the Merrimack River. Everything I read indicated the river was named after a native word meaning ‘rapid water’ or some such thing. But I know a woman who is an expert in Algonquin language—she laughed at that explanation. She said the Algonquin language doesn’t even have the ‘r’ sound and beyond that the word doesn’t resemble any word meaning water or river or rapids. She believed the name Merrimack was of European origin.”

  “Has it always been called the Merrimack?”

  She nodded. “Since the very earliest Colonial times. Probably earlier.” She raised her eyebrow, waiting for him to put the pieces together.

  Of course. If it was a European name, and it predated the arrival of the earliest Colonists, and the Prince Henry expedition used it as their main thoroughfare….

  She finished Cam’s thought. “And the original spelling was ‘M-A-R-R-Y-M-A-C-K.’ Our friend Mary again. The Sacred Feminine.”

  “Wait. Take it one step further. ‘Mac’ means ‘son of’ in Scottish, right? So Marrymack means ‘Son of Mary.’ For a river, symbolically, it’s a perfect name. The river flows, just like the Jesus bloodline.”

  Amanda repeated the words back to him. “The river flows like the Jesus bloodline.” She grinned. “As Brandon said, that’s some deep shit. But I think you’re correct.”

  He shook his head. “This stuff just keeps coming together.”

  They had a river named after the son of the Virgin Mary in northern New England, a tower named after Mary Magdalene in southern New England and a bunch of fascinating artifacts in between. Plus a Puritan judge with a strange fixation on his wife’s nipples and a series of curious connections to the locations and artifacts comprising this puzzle. Brandon was right: It was time to go to Newport to see if they could put the jigsaw together.

  CHAPTER 16

  [Saturday Afternoon]

  Amanda snuck a look at Cam as they bounced along in a Bonanza bus bound for Newport. She liked him clean-shaven. Of course, she had also liked him with the goatee. She just liked him. Liked his competence, the way he always seemed to know what to do—how to solve a problem or make a plan or find his way. Liked the way he didn’t complain, didn’t lament his injured shoulder or his diabetes. Liked his loyalty and honor, the fact that he cried when Eric Forsberg died and refused to abandon his cousin or this fight or his ideals. And liked his easy smile, especially when it shined on her.

  They had boarded the bus in Boston, stockpiled with a handful of newly-purchased books covering the history of Newport and early exploration of New England. She skimmed the accounts of Verrazzano, who explored the Atlantic Coast of America, including Rhode Island’s Narragansett Bay, in 1524. “Listen to this. Verrazzano traveled up the coast from the Carolinas to Newfoundland--”

  “Verrazzano. Isn’t he the guy who explored Nova Scotia and named it Arcadia?” Cam interrupted.

  “Precisely. Which is one of the reasons I’m reading his logs. He made a number of stops along his journey up the coastline, visiting the natives and describing the land. He describes the Native Americans as small and dark—he uses the term Ethiopian for the color of their skin. But have a listen at what he writes about your Indians in Narragansett Bay: ‘This is the finest looking tribe … that we have found in our voyage. They exceed us in size, and they are of a very fair complexion; some of them incline more to a white….’” She looked up. “This is the first I’ve heard about white-skinned Indians.”

  “Not me, believe it or not. Roger Williams—you know, the guy who founded Rhode Island—lived with the Narragansett tribe for a few years and he said the babies were born with red hair and white skin. When I read it, it didn’t mean anything to me. But now….” He stared out the window for a few seconds. “Maybe it explains something I haven’t been able to figure out: What happened to Prince Henry?”

  “I thought we agreed he left with the aliens,” she deadpanned as Cam grinned. “Seriously, as I told you, there’s
no evidence in Scotland of his death. He may have remained in America and passed on here.”

  “That’s my point. If he stayed here, probably with a few dozen other men, what happened to them, I mean before they died? There’s really only two possibilities: The natives either killed them or befriended them. And we’re already pretty sure the natives helped Prince Henry, served as his guides, showed him America’s Stonehenge. It’s a fair assumption Sinclair and his men would have become part of some tribe.”

  “The tall, fair-skinned natives.”

  “And the red-haired babies.”

  “Actually, there’s an amusing story about a reunion in Nova Scotia between the Mi’kmaq tribe and the Sinclair descendants; Prince Henry wintered with the Mi’Kmaqs his first winter in Nova Scotia, before sailing to Westford. The reunion commemorated the 600 year anniversary of the voyage so it would have been in 1998. The Mi’kmaq chief and the Sinclair clan leader looked like brothers. People couldn’t stop commenting on it.” She bit her lip. “There was talk about doing DNA testing on the Mi’kmaqs and Sinclairs. I wonder if it ever came to be.”

  “I’ll ask Brandon to dig around. I’d love to hear the Rhonda Blanks of the world rebut a direct DNA link between the Sinclairs and the Mi’kmaqs.”

  “It’s similar to attempting to convince the Christian Fundamentalists we descend from apes. No amount of evidence will change their minds.”

  While Cam phoned Brandon, she explored the possibilities associated with Sinclair and his men living with the natives for an extended period. “This might explain another oddity: Verrazzano didn’t mention the Tower in his log.”

  “Really?”

  “I read it twice.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t see it. It’s a long coastline.”

  “I doubt it. He spent 15 days exploring the Newport area. One would think the Tower would be the type of thing the natives would show him. I supposed one possibility is he viewed the Tower but chose not to write about it lest the log fall into the wrong hands; he would tell the king in person. Recall that Marco Polo did not mention the Great Wall when he wrote about China.”

  “Maybe you have it backward. Maybe the Narragansetts purposely hid it from him.”

  She stared out the window for a few seconds, the trees flashing by in a blur. “Yes, that is a possibility. It had only been just over 100 years since Prince Henry’s visit. Perhaps he warned the natives that other Europeans would come looking for him, for the Tower.” She paused. “For his treasures.”

  “Yes, that makes perfect sense. Sinclair would have told them to be wary of other Europeans, to not share any secrets with them.”

  “And Verrazzano wasn’t in on the secret, wasn’t part of the Templar line, didn’t know the password or code. So they kept him away.”

  Cam nodded slowly. “Or maybe it’s just the opposite. Maybe he was in on the secret and wanted to keep it quiet. Remember, he’s the guy who named Nova Scotia Arcadia. Maybe he was Rex Deus himself.” His kind brown eyes settled on hers. “Either possibility is consistent with why the Tower is not in his report.” He squeezed her hand. “Good job.”

  As the bus rolled down Route 95, they continued pouring through their stack of books. After twenty minutes Cam broke the silence. “Check this out. In 1622 somebody printed a journal recounting the early days of the Pilgrims. The journal talks about a group of settlers who went exploring in the woods and found an elaborate Indian burial site. They opened the grave and found crowns and knives and trinkets and jewelry—the typical stuff you’d find buried with a chief or king. When they got to the body, it had been embalmed; again, what you’d expect for a chief. But here’s the interesting thing: Quoting from the journal, ‘The skull had fine yellow hair still on it.’”

  “Blond-haired natives to go with our tall, fair-skinned ones. And Plymouth is not so far from Newport.”

  Cam nodded. “Less than a hundred miles. That DNA testing may turn out to be pretty interesting.”

  * * *

  As the bus approached Newport, Cam’s TracFone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, looked to Amanda before picking it up.

  “You really must answer it,” she said.

  He nodded. It was either a wrong number, in which case no harm would come from it, or somebody who somehow had tracked them down, in which case the harm would come whether he answered or not. “Hello.”

  “Is this Cameron Thorne?” A bit of a Midwestern twang but not a voice Cam recognized.

  “Who’s calling?”

  He paused, cautious. “This is Scott Wolter.”

  Cam exhaled. “Hey, Scott. What’s up?”

  “I was getting worried about you guys. Are you all right?”

  “We’re still on the run, trying to put this all together.”

  “That’s why I called. I’ve been digging around. I’m friendly with some Masons out here in Minnesota and they feed me information when I ask.” He chuckled. “Actually, they’re sworn to secrecy so sometimes they just sort of point at books and stuff with their elbow or chin. But eventually even a dunce like me figures it out.”

  The only experience Cam had with the Masons was being entertained by a group of smiling brothers with sock puppets when he gave blood a few years ago. It was hard to imagine these guys were the guardians of ancient secrets.

  “So I asked them about your Prince Henry,” Wolter continued. “Apparently your man Sinclair would have been a Masonic Grand Master himself.”

  Amanda, who was listening in, nodded.

  “Here’s the deal,” Wolter explained, largely repeating Amanda’s account of the Templars fleeing to Scotland with their treasures, where they were safeguarded in Roslyn by the Sinclair clan, a leading Templar family.

  “Well, once they got to Scotland they reconstituted themselves as the Masons. Here’s the interesting part: The Grand Master position was a hereditary one, held until the 18th century by the head of the Sinclair clan. So, like I said, your man Prince Henry would have been a Grand Master, as would his descendants. And you already know the Sinclair family was related to one of the original nine Knights Templar. So you’ve got a line of Sinclairs going from the early 1100s all the way to the mid-18th century being leaders of the Templar and Masonic orders.”

  Cam and Amanda exchanged glances. The Sinclair clan’s leadership of the Masons into the 17th and 18th centuries potentially linked the family to events in Colonial America. Specifically, Newport.

  Wolter continued. “This stuff definitely ties in with our Hooked X research. The Templars were in Scotland but they knew their time was limited—the English kings kept attacking Scottish lands, trying to bring them under Papal control. And trying to recapture the Templar treasures.”

  Cam saw where this story was going. “Then Prince Henry finds a map to the New World.”

  “Or maybe he had old Viking maps from his mother’s family. Or maybe the Templars found an ancient map in Jerusalem—there’s lots of evidence of the Phoenicians exploring North America. Either way, it was time. Time to take their treasures and their followers to a new land, the New World, where nobody could find them. You with me so far?”

  “Totally.”

  “Look, I’m a scientist. This is really just a matter of logic. And the key to it all is the Cistercians. During medieval times the only people on the island of Gotland who had the ability to write were the Cistercian monks. And we know the Kensington Rune Stone was carved by people from Gotland because of the Dotted R rune, not to mention the unique grammar and dialect of the writing. Finally, we know the Spirit Pond Rune Stone and the Narragansett Rune Stone were carved by the same people who carved the Kensington Rune Stone.”

  “Right. Because of the Hooked X.” It appeared on the three North American rune stones yet nowhere in Europe.

  “Exactly. So we know a Cistercian monk must have carved all three rune stones. Now we just connect the dots. The Hooked X is a cipher, a symbol, that tells us the carvers believed in the Jesus bloodline. That tells us the Cis
tercians and the Templars knew the secrets of the Church, knew that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a baby. That’s not surprising—they knew all sorts of secrets. And your man Prince Henry not only descends from a long line of Templars, he’s heir to the Jesus bloodline himself. And he’s got a bunch of Templars with him up in Scotland trying to escape the Pope. And he’s got a map. So of course they’d get in their boats and--”

  Wolter suddenly cut out, the cell connection broken as the bus pulled into the terminal in Newport.

  Cam finished the narrative. “And sail to the New World.”

  * * *

  Cam and Amanda grabbed their backpacks and book bags, hopped off the bus and darted along the crowded America’s Cup Avenue, the harborfront area lined with shops and restaurants and pubs. A few sailboats—yachts, actually—motored into the harbor after a day on the water, part of the dynamic panorama enjoyed by diners at outdoor tables and tourists lining the docks and children wrestling dripping ice cream cones. A warm Saturday afternoon late in September, a last chance to squeeze some summer out of the miserly New England climate.

  “That stuff Scott Wolter told us fills in a lot of the missing pieces.”

  “Yes. It seems we’re getting close.” She sighed. “But where does it all end?”

  The stress of the past few days was beginning to get to Amanda. As it was beginning to get to him. He took her hand. “I’d love to come back here with you and just hang out, walk around, tour the mansions, dinner and drinks, whatever.”

  She rallied quickly. “Dancing, too?”

  “Only if you have two right feet to match my two left ones.” They walked in silence a few strides. “Actually, one of the best things to do here is fly stunt kites.”

  “Stunt kites?”

  “They have two lines and they’re bigger than regular kites. You hold one line in each hand and you can make the kites dive and spin and do all sorts of tricks. There’s a state park at the tip of Newport; it’s a great place to fly because it’s always windy. Same reason it’s such a good sailing area.”