Isle of Swords (8 page)

So it was an unhappy surprise that greeted the crew of the
William Wallace
when they pulled into port at the holy isle. “Give me the glass,” said Ross. Even as he brought the spyglass up to his eye, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He scanned the shoreline and saw the statue of Mary kneeling at the water's edge, blessing the sea and all who travel upon it. There were row upon row of wooden stakes attached by gossamer white twine—the vineyards, and beyond them, the orchards and the dark stone of the abbey. But in the foreground left of the monastery, stabbed deep into the sandy shore, was a black flag. Upon its sable field were the white silhouette of an hourglass, a skull over crossed swords, and a raven taking flight.

“It's Thorne,” Ross said. “He's put his death's-head flag upon the shore to warn them. He plans to take the island.”

“That madman!” Stede exclaimed. “What does that mon think he b' doin'? Attacking the monks is against the code.”

“He thinks he's above the code,” Ross muttered. “This is no longer a safe haven.”

“Welcome, Captain Ross,” said Father Raphael Valentia, the chief of the order of St. Celestine. “Your return is an unlooked-for blessing.” He glanced behind Ross at the
Wallace
. “Your ship is in need of careening, I see. We will do this for you and supply you with fresh provision.”

“Thank you, Father.” Ross stood on the deck near the bowsprit. “As always, we appreciate your kindness. But that flag makes me think we won't have the time. When did the death's-head show up?” Ross gestured toward the
Raven
's flag.

Father Valentia grimaced, and the group of monks gathered there murmured among themselves.

“Captain Thorne's warning defiled our shore before the sun rose yesterday morning.”

“That gives you only two more days before he returns and attacks,” Ross thought aloud. “Have you made arrangements to get to the mainland?”

“We are not leaving our island,” said Father Valentia.

“What?” Ross exclaimed. “You must leave. Do you not realize what that flag means? He's marked Saint Celestine—claimed it as his. He'll kill everyone. Do you understand—EVERYONE!! Father, we are old friends. I'll grant passage to you and the Brothers to sail with us. The Brothers and my crew will be able to quickly prepare the
Wallace
, fill up our barrels and crates with food and drink. We will leave tonight for Santo Magherito. From there you can get to the mainland, far away from the co—”

“We are not leaving, Declan.” The monk's face was calm—even peaceful—but resolute. “But we would ask one favor of you.”

“Anything, Father,” Ross replied.

Father Valentia turned his head and nodded. The group parted, and a hooded monk came forward. He stood by Father Valentia and lowered his hood. His hair was dark, but his eyes were darker . . . sinkholes surrounded by skin deeply tanned but cracked and weather-beaten.

“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

L
ate 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.