Isle of Swords (9 page)

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.”

“Your 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

T
hank 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 whirled. 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'?”