Isle of Swords Read online

  “This is Padre Dominguez,” said Father Valentia. “While we remain here to preserve our order, he must escape.”

  “Must escape, Father?” Ross asked. “No pirate has dared leave a death’s-head on this isle, until now. You want me to take him aboard, a monk I do not know, but leave your order here to face Thorne’s wrath? Why would this be?”

  Father Valentia remained silent.

  Captain Ross looked at the black flag stabbed deep into the sandy shore. Its grinning skull, a menacing intruder to the monastery, nested in the orchard beyond. Ross wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and looked back at his crew.

  Ross turned to face Padre Dominguez. “Do you know what you’re asking me, Padre? Your life is forfeit—so is the life of any who grant you quarter! What is it Thorne wants from you?”

  The monk’s aged, pocked face became so taut that his lips seemed to disappear. He turned to his superior, who nodded. “The Treasure of Constantine,” the monk said slowly, as if the words had not been spoken in an age and would bring down a curse upon the one who said them. “I know how to find it.”

  For a long while, Captain Ross studied the monk’s face. “The Treasure of Constantine, Padre Dominguez?” he scoffed. “Everyone knows that fortune was lost in the Bosporus during a squall. All the gold, the silver—even the green diamonds—lay beyond reach in the depths. Next you’ll be telling me you know the secret location of El Dorado!”

  “Not lost,” the monk whispered. “Stolen. Stolen by Spartan marauders in AD 400, but reclaimed by the church and hidden once and for all so that pagan hands would never defile them again.”

  “Mountains of gold and jewels . . . treasure?!” Ross exclaimed.

  “What’s to defile?”

  “You and I define treasure very differently,” the monk replied.

  “So you say, Padre,” Ross scoffed. His head began to pound again. He paused and twisted an end of his coppery moustache between his fingers. “But why would you take me and my lads to this holy treasure? We’re just as pagan as any.”

  “Not so, Captain Ross. The Brothers of Saint Celestine know you are better than that. You and your men were taught to fight at sea by your nations during time of war. When the war ended, the governments left you with a choice between piracy and the starvation of your families. In spite of that—even now—you attack only those who are openly at war with Scotland. And you always grant quarter to—”

  “Spare me the benediction, Padre!” Ross exclaimed. “I . . . I can’t offer you quarter. I can’t take you aboard. Crossing blades with Bartholomew Thorne over some legendary treasure—that’s just insane!”

  Stede jabbed Ross in the ribs. “Think of the treasure, mon,” he whispered. “Besides, we already got Thorne trying to kill us and—”

  “Not now.” Ross spoke under his breath so that only Stede could hear. Then he spoke aloud to the monks. “I’m sorry, Padre, but I just can’t risk the lives of my crew without proof.”

  Padre Dominguez’s face saddened. He turned and let his brown robe fall down from his shoulders. And there, tattooed into the flesh of his back, was a very intricate map.

  10

  HIDE AND SEEK

  Late that evening, the crew of the William Wallace prepared to sail. On the shore of St. Celestine under a moonless sky, Declan Ross said his farewells to the monks. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Ross asked. “I’ve already got one of you aboard. I’m dead anyway. Might as well take you all.”

  Father Valentia laughed quietly, but it was such a strange, humorless sound that it gave Ross the chills. “Should Thorne come to our island,” said the monk, “we will remain hidden in the tunnels beneath the abbey. When he has gone, we will emerge and preserve our order.”

  Ross was quiet for a long while, then he casually strode up the gangplank. “Mister Stede, nor-noreast, please.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Stede replied. “Nor-noreast!”

  Ross would never forget that moment, drifting away. All the monks of the order of St. Celestine remained there on the shore. He could still see their faces in the light of their lanterns. Facing Thorne meant facing torture and death. Few survived his wrath. But they were not afraid. Ross respected that. Not knowing what else to do, he took off his hat and watched until the holy island was devoured by darkness.

  From the second-floor balcony of the monastery, Father Valentia watched the dark ships arrive. How many there were, he could not accurately tell. More than a dozen, certainly—more than enough. He watched the tall ships moor offshore and saw them drop launches and cutters into the water.

  He lingered a moment looking out over the orchards, the gardens, and the vineyards that had been his love—all things green and growing.

  “Father Valentia?” came a hushed voice from the hall. “It is time.” It was Father Gregory, a best friend, a true saint.

  Father Valentia looked up and smiled. He joined the other monks in the hall. They traveled down the stairs and into the sanctuary. Usually lit by the dancing flames of hundreds of candles, the sanctuary was now shrouded in shadows. The Brothers of St. Celestine gathered there, standing in a wide circle around an enormous mural of the cross inscribed on the floor tiles. Father Valentia moved to the precise middle of the cross and nodded. Four monks stepped forward from the circle. Each walked to one of the four ends of the cross mural. As each man stepped onto the painted tile, there was a faint scraping sound, like stone sliding on stone. The tiles where each of the four monks stood dropped downward an inch.

  At that moment, a circular outline appeared around Father Valentia’s feet. The hidden platform slowly began to drop below the level of the floor. In a few seconds, Father Valentia was safely in the catacombs beneath the monastery. There, he stepped off the platform and held down the trigger bar that protruded from the wall. This time, the platform rose up past the sanctuary floor. Beneath the circular platform was a wrought-iron spiral staircase. The monks descended the staircase one by one, and when the last one went down Father Valentia let up on the trigger bar. The sanctuary floor returned to normal.

  Father Valentia turned to the other monks, his flock, and said, “Father Gregory will lead you to the hidden catacombs—where you will remain until the threat is gone.”

  As Father Valentia followed behind them, he thought about their elaborate hiding place. Even if Thorne and his pirates entered the sanctuary and discovered the platform, they would never recognize the four pressure plates needed to trigger its movement. Only the monks knew of the catacombs. Maybe we will survive Thorne’s attack, he thought.

  Long white hair and sideburns like silver daggers running down his sunken cheeks made Bartholomew Thorne look like a ghostly apparition as he stood in the center of the sanctuary. His brow bristled and hooded his cold eyes in shadow. He’d sent five hundred men to search the monastery. Scout after scout returned, but no sign of the monks.

  “He’s got to be here somewhere!” he yelled. Damaged long ago from inhaling smoke as he escaped from a fire, Thorne’s voice rasped and grated like a sustained hacking cough. When he grew angry, his breathing could be heard across a room as a low, scraping rumble.

  As Mr. Skellick, the quartermaster of the Raven, entered the sanctuary, he heard his captain’s breath and knew immediately that things went ill.

  “What did you find?” Thorne demanded.

  Skellick kept one eye trained on Thorne’s walking stick. The four-foot-long stave was originally carved from a large white oak bough, but Thorne had a dozen talonlike iron spikes embedded in the wood. The walking stick still leaked sap from the places where the spikes had been installed. For that reason—and others—the crew of the Raven called Thorne’s weapon the bleeding stick.

  “Captain, there are signs of a great gathering at the shoreline,” Skellick told him, swallowing back the fear. There was nothing Thorne despised more than weakness, so Skellick gave it to him straight. “A large ship was moored there. A frigate maybe, or a brig.”

  “You
r opinion?”

  “It would seem that they heeded your warning,” Skellick said. “Boarded a British frigate and fled for the mainland. But . . . I do not believe that is what they did at all. The Brothers of Saint Celestine are nothing if not proud of their lineage and the history of this island. I believe they are still here, trusting in their God to keep them safe,” Skellick said.

  “Where?”

  “I suspect underground or in a cave up in the hills. They may even have some kind of fortified chamber in the middle of this monastery.”

  “That’s why I keep you around, Skellick,” Thorne said with a sinister chuckle. “You think like I do. They’re still here, all right, but not in the abbey.” He was quiet a moment, letting his eyes wander about the sanctuary. He scanned the tapestries, the altar, and paused for several heartbeats on the floor. “Come here,” he said. Skellick followed his captain over to a huge stained-glass window. It depicted the apostle Paul’s encounter with the risen Christ on the road to Damascus. Bartholomew Thorne lifted his walking stick, smashed it against the window, and stepped out of the way as huge shards of glass fell and shattered on the tile floor. Then, crunching on glass with every step, Thorne walked to the now open window. Skellick joined him, and Thorne pointed up into the hills. “That’s where I’d go.”

  After following the many twists and turns in the catacombs, Father Valentia caught up to Father Gregory at the stair beneath the bell tower. The narrow, climbing steps led to a recessed door hidden behind a tall tapestry in the vestibule.

  “Take the others to the bowels of the monastery,” Father Valentia whispered. “I will keep watch from the bell tower and will return for you when I know it is safe.” Father Gregory did as he was told and led the monks farther into the maze.

  Father Valentia made his way up the stairs and paused at the five-foot door. He pulled the lever door release. He pushed on the heavy door, and, with a low crack, it pushed free of the wall. Quietly he closed it tightly, so only the monks could find it. Finally, he left the room and dashed up the steps to the tower room. He pushed open the door. “Good evening, Father,” came a strained and raspy voice. “It is time for confession.”

  11

  ILHA DE ESPADAS

  Thank you.” The whispered voice startled Anne. She turned. The wounded lad’s eyes were open, and for the first time they didn’t look like they would roll back into his head at any moment. “Thank you,” he said again. “You stayed with me.”

  Anne felt herself blush and turned her head, trying to make it stop. “I didn’t know you were awake . . .” She fingered the coral pendant that hung at the end of a cord necklace. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been hit by a bull. My head throbs, and I am stiff. I feel like I am lying on broken seashells.”

  “Those are the scabs. Nubby said they’d be pretty bad. He put some medicine paste on those awful gashes.” Anne paused, wondering if she should ask. She grimaced and decided she had to know.

  “What happened to you?”

  The lad turned his head. He did not answer.

  “I’m sorry,” Anne said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “What?”

  A hot tear escaped. “I don’t know what happened to me.”

  Anne fell silent. She thought about Chevillard, that terrible moment when he entered the room. Anne couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to recognize this wounded lad. “Are you . . . are you a pirate?”

  “A pirate?” The lad frowned. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  Anne stood up. “And just what’s wrong with being a pirate?”

  “I didn’t say there was anythi—”

  “For your information, I am a pirate!” she said. “You are a guest aboard a pirate ship. And if it weren’t for the pirates on this ship, you wouldn’t be alive!”

  “You are a pirate?” he asked, astonished.

  “Yes,” she replied hesitantly. “Well, no . . . not exactly. But it’s only a matter of time. I can do everything the men on this ship can do. Better than some.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that, well . . . most pirates aren’t like you.”

  “I guess you’re right about that.” Anne softened a bit. “My name’s Anne. Anne Ross.” She waited for him to respond. He said nothing, but the rims around his eyes became red, and he shook with anger.

  “I can’t remember . . . I’ve tried. There’s just nothing there. I don’t know my name. I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know anything.”

  “It’ll all come back,” Anne said, smiling bravely for him. “I’m certain it will.”

  He closed his eyes. Anne wished she could do something to help.

  From somewhere above came the clear sound of two bells. “Nubby’ll be down to check on you soon,” she said. “I have watch.” He didn’t respond. He was so still Anne thought he might have fallen asleep.

  Anne hesitated, made sure his eyes were completely shut, and then put the leather pouch back on the table near his hand. She thought it was a good thing he hadn’t caught her with it. She left the room without another word, wondering about the cross, the lock of hair, and the jewel . . . especially the jewel.

  He was not, in fact, asleep. But his mind raced such that he hadn’t noticed Anne’s final act before she left. No, someone could have fired a cannon at his bedside, and he would have ignored it. For, at last, he thought he had figured something out. The footprints he’d seen on the island. When he’d seen them that day, he’d assumed that someone else had been on the island. But picturing the scene now in his mind, he remembered that the footprints had led up to where he stood. If someone had come out of the palms and approached him while he was unconscious, there would have been a set of footprints returning into the palms. They were mine, he realized. I made the footprints that came out of the palms and across that dune. And that meant that somewhere on that island there could be other clues to his identity.

  “It is called by the Portuguese, Ilha de Espadas,” said Padre Dominguez. He, Ross, Stede, and Jules sat alone around the captain’s desk. Anne, to her everlasting frustration, was on watch and so, not invited. Ross had deftly offered her time at the helm when her watch was over. That defused his mercurial daughter for the moment.

  “Isle of Swords, eh?” Ross replied. “That doesn’t sound very inviting.”

  “It is not,” said the monk. “The island is a most inhospitable place—a volcanic land mass, wreathed in an ashen cloud. The mainlanders believe it to be legend only. A fleeting vision at sea, akin to your Flying Dutchman. Few but the Brethren have set foot on its perilous shores.”

  “The Brethren?” Jules echoed.

  “Those of my order,” said the monk.

  “Saint Celestine?” Ross suggested.

  Padre Dominguez shook his head. “Father Valentia was kind enough to grant me refuge there for a time. And though he knows of it, he is not of my order.” The monk weighed a decision in his mind. These men seemed decent as pirates went and would most likely be content with the precious metals and jewels. But could they be trusted? He felt it must be God’s will that he work with these men for the greater good.

  “The Brethren,” he began, “are a small but powerful sect of the church, as secret as we are ancient. Nearly fourteen hundred years old . . . formed during the reign of Emperor Constantine while Sylvester I was pope. Constantine, being a Christian himself, began to collect holy artifacts, priceless items that he added to his already vast treasure. The faithful would travel from throughout the world to view these precious relics of our faith. As you might imagine, others with very different motives came as well.

  “When items began to disappear from Constantine’s vaults, and rumor spread that they were being sold off, the Brethren was formed.

  Utilizing methods not usually condoned by the church, we kept safe Constantine’s Treasure.”

  Ross’s mind whi
rled. He’d never been much for history lessons.

  “But I thought you said that the Spartans took it.”

  “Alas, yes, but that is a story I will not openly share. Suffice it to say that we retrieved the treasure. Then we moved this treasure to a location that is . . . more protected.”

  “Wait,” Ross said, holding up a hand and tilting his head. “Are you telling me this Brethren group stole Constantine’s Treasure?”

  “By the time Pope Boniface I began his reign, the Brethren had transplanted many of the church’s most sacred relics and artifacts to places of safekeeping.”

  Ross couldn’t believe his ears. This just confirmed everything he’d ever thought about religion. “But isn’t there something in that Bible of yours about ‘thou shall not steal’?”

  “Do you read the Holy Scriptures, Declan Ross?” asked Padre Dominguez. His stare fell cold on Captain Ross. The captain of the Wallace lost his smug smile just as quickly as it had come. He stared out of his quarters’ balcony window at the whitecaps.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Then do not presume to judge me by them.” The monk continued. “The Brethren is a sacred order called by God to maintain the safekeeping of the holy relics of God. The Brethren acts with a pure heart and a clear conscience.”

  “Whatever you say, Padre,” Ross said, relieved to back out of that conversation. He grabbed a handful of nuts from a bowl on the desk. “We’re in. So where is this Isle of Swords?”

  “In the North Atlantic, some one hundred miles due west of the Azores.” Ross nearly spit out a mouthful of nuts.

  Stede, who knew the names and locations of every port in the known world, was aghast. “There b’ no islands due west of the Azores!”

  “Not on your sea charts, perhaps,” said the monk, turning to reveal the map on his back once more. “Nevertheless, it exists on mine. And I have been there.”