The Templar's Code (22 page)

Edie stared at the nonsensical phrase. “Guess it has something to do with pigs.”

Caedmon suddenly slapped his palm against the granite slab. “Oh, for bollocky’s sake! Swine refers to Bacon.”

“Only after you cook it.”

“No, I mean Sir Francis Bacon, the sixteenth-century English philosopher. Elizabethan history has never been my strong suit, but as I recall, Bacon, Ralegh, and Dee all ran in the same circle, bound by their shared interest in hermetic philosophy and the occult sciences.”

“The occult sciences being something of an oxymoron, right?”

“To the learned and enlightened men of Elizabeth’s court, occult science, or alchemy, was the
first
of the sciences. And, curiously enough, the Knights Templar also had an interest in alchemy, having been exposed to it in the course of their dealings with the Sephardic Jews.” Evidently realizing that he was rambling, he selfdeprecatingly smiled. “But I digress.” Pencil still in hand, he underlined the last line of the translated message. “Bacon’s court can only refer to one place: Gray’s Inn.”

“Sorry, but I’m drawing a big fat blank.”

Caedmon crossed his booted feet at the ankle, once more leaning back on his elbows. “Located in London, Gray’s Inn is a professional association for barristers. There are four of these inns, the other three being the Middle Temple, the Inner Temple, and Lincoln’s Inn. During the Elizabethan period, the inns were boarding houses and social clubs all rolled into one. Sir Francis maintained lodging at Gray’s Inn.”

“So then it’s possible that Walter Ralegh took whatever it was that he found in the Templar sanctuary to Gray’s Inn, whereupon he turned it over to Francis Bacon.”

“According to the Enochian communiqué, that’s what Ralegh
intended
to do. We have no way of knowing if he followed through.” Reaching for a water bottle, he twisted the cap and offered the opened bottle to her.

Edie waved it off. “Perhaps at this juncture I should point out that there’s a lot we don’t know. Particularly since we have no clue as to
what
this ‘glorious’ relic is. Even if we did know what we’re looking for, we have no idea
where
to look for it. And, news flash, Sir Walter and Sir Francis died centuries ago.”

“At which time the Templars’ relic was bequeathed to someone. No doubt, someone in that same circle of men.” Seemingly unperturbed, Caedmon took a swig of water.

“Oh, yeah, a completely unknown ‘someone’ should be easy to track down.” Shaking her head, Edie rolled her eyes.

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“Hey, one person’s sarcasm is another person’s reality check,” she countered. “In my humble opinion, we just smashed headlong into a concrete barrier.”

Mercurius heavily sighed. “It must be done.”

“You have my word.”

Communiqué ended, Saviour turned his attention to the pair lounging on the stone slab beside the river. His mentor had been displeased to learn that the Brit and his woman emerged from the cave empty-handed. It meant that there was nothing in the cave to retrieve. Whatever treasure had once been safeguarded in the subterranean hideaway had already been confiscated. That being the case, Saviour now had to ensure that no one ever learned of the cave’s existence.

Unzipping his canvas carrying case, he first removed a leather quiver that contained two dozen wooden arrows. Unlike an aluminum or fiberglass arrow, a cedar shaft had its own unique personality. The wood grain gave each arrow its own feel. Its own smell.

He fingered several arrows, gauging the spines of each, the stiffness of the arrow determining its flight distance. He settled on a wooden arrow with blue feather fletching. The color of the Aegean Sea in the early morning light.

On Panos Island he used to feign interest as Evangelos droned on about shear drag, kinetic energy, and the laws of physics. When it came to archery, Saviour knew that only one thing mattered—hit the target.

And he was
very
good at that.

Smiling, he lightly touched the steel tip of the selected arrow. “This will hurt you a great deal, Englishman,” he softly whispered.

“The car may be dented, but the engine still runs,” Caedmon informed Edie, refusing to acknowledge that they’d hit a roadblock. After all the years of study, this was the closest he’d ever come to deciphering the mystery of the Knights Templar.

Monks. Warriors. Mystics. New World colonists.
It was fast becoming a heady brew.

Of one thing he was certain: Sir Walter Ralegh not only discovered the subterranean sanctuary, but he removed
something
from it. Meaning Ralegh succeeded where Giovanni da Verrazano failed. Although the unwitting Verrazano most likely led the swashbuckling Englishman to the prize, the Italian sea captain having mentioned the Newport stone tower in his ship’s log. Enough of a clue for Ralegh, Bacon, and Dee to put the pieces of the Templar puzzle together. After all, it’d been known for centuries that a large contingent of knights managed to elude the Inquisition, escaping by sea. But until the sixteenth century, nobody knew
where
they’d escaped to.

Now that he knew the where, Caedmon was determined to find out
what
precisely Ralegh found in the Templar sanctuary. Once he knew what he was looking for, he could then begin the hunt in earnest.

“May I borrow your laptop?”

“Be my guest.” Edie popped out the memory chip before handing over her two-pound dynamo. Reaching into her field kit, she removed a resealable plastic bag. “Mind filling me in?”

“Not in the least. I’m checking for the next available flight to London. I believe there’s an airport at Providence. Even with the translated Ralegh communiqué, I’m still very much in the starting blocks.”

“And going to London will change that
how
?” In the process of placing the memory chip into the plastic bag, she stopped in mid-motion. The woman didn’t just stare at him, she out-and-out scowled, no doubt thinking him completely bonkers.

“There’s a chap in London, name of Rubin Woolf. In addition to being an antiquarian, Rubin is an acknowledged Baconian expert.”

“And you’re thinking that this Rubin character can shed some light on Bacon and his esoteric cronies?” Edie ran her thumb and index finger across the top of the plastic bag, sealing the memory chip inside.

“If Francis Bacon came into possession of a ‘glorious’ Templar relic, Rubin might know something about it. The man is quite obsessed.”

Edie chuckled. “One pod, two peas. Okay, let’s do it. Let’s go to London.”

“I think you should know that London can be beastly in March: chill wind, driving rain.”

“That’s why the umbrella was invented.” She cocked her head to one side, a questioning expression on her face. “You’re sending a mixed message. Do you want me to accompany you or not?”

Caedmon hesitated. Two days ago Jason Lovett had been executed, the murder weapon emblazoned with an octogram star. Moreover, the man’s cottage had been thoroughly ransacked, the intruder leaving a painted star as a parting signature. While he didn’t know how the symbol related to those two violent episodes, he had to assume the beautiful bastard was still on the hunt.

“You’re taking
way
too long to answer a simple question.”

He wordlessly stared at her, not certain how to reply.
My brave, beautiful Edie.
Although he willed it otherwise, he couldn’t erase the image of her perilously clinging to the shaft.

“According to the computer, there’s a flight leaving Providence, Rhode Island, at seven twenty this evening. There are two seats still available,” he said finally, deciding the best way to keep her safe was to keep her close. “And the umbrella was invented by the ancient Egyptians.”

“Well, praise be, the riddle is finally solved.”

Ignoring her smirk, Caedmon booked the flight, keying in names, dates, and his credit card number.

Edie glanced at her watch. “We have plenty of time to hike out of here, return to our hotel and catch a bite to eat, then drive to Providence. Lucky for you, I packed my passport.”

“How fortunate,” Caedmon deadpanned as he reached for his field kit. The instant he leaned over, he experienced an excruciating burst of pain.

He glanced down, flabbergasted to see an arrow protruding from his upper arm.

How could he have missed his target? To kill a man, you must strike him in the head or the heart. A lesson learned on Panos Island.

Enraged, Saviour took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the scent of cedar. Remembering. . .

“You’re my little
pousties.
You have no honor.”

“
As to thialo!
Although hell’s too good a place for you,” Saviour hissed, releasing the arrow, striking Evangelos in the upper thigh. The tycoon dropped to his knees, gasping.

“Calm. Above all else, I must remain calm,” Saviour murmured, the memory imbuing him with newfound strength. If he kept his focus, he could accomplish anything he set his sights upon. Isn’t that what Mercurius always told him?

Yes, focus.

“I
will
kill the Brit.”